No one objected. The trip to the hospital was silent except for moments when we passed over a railroad crossing. Then the person riding shotgun would say, “Tracks,” and the people in back would hold Scott more steadily and hang onto an IV bottle which was already dripping into his arm. At the hospital, they made me wait in the hall. I nearly went berserk at that rule, but the hospital personnel were firm, and the police insisted I tell them what had happened. Even that wouldn’t have kept me from my lover, but one of the doctors, a man in his early thirties, said to me, “We’re going to do everything we can. You can’t help by getting in our way. You’ll be able to see him as soon as we can allow it.” I didn’t ask whether Scott would be okay. I didn’t want to hear an answer I couldn’t live with. The doctor’s voice was low and calm and soothing, and he had piercing violet eyes that met mine unflinchingly. He disappeared through the swinging doors of the emergency room.
