Or watching a stranger. Because the crazy person speeding across town toward Baylor Medical, swerving around cars, blowing red lights, violating all traffic laws, can’t possibly be me. Panic balloons in my chest. I grip the steering wheel, palms slick with sweat, so tight my knuckles have turned white. I swing my truck onto Gaston Avenue. A forest of stone hospital buildings looms ahead. Following the signs to the ER, I whip into a spot in the parking lot, then dash through the glass double doors that lead to the emergency department. The visitor waiting area feels calm, as if I’ve entered a Michelin-star restaurant rather than a hospital. I race toward the reception desk where a woman in navy scrubs sits in front of a computer. “Jackson Turner,” I blurt, the words coming out in a breathless jumble. “He should—” “A moment please,” she says, her acrylic nails zipping across the keyboard.
