She’d gotten out of surgery more than three hours ago and the surgeon had said he wasn’t worried when she didn’t wake when he’d projected. “She’s been fighting off the infection for several days. If she wakes before morning at this point, I’ll be surprised. The girl is strong, I’ll give her that.” He’d ordered her pain medications to be given every four hours to keep her still and told Annamarie that she could stay with the girl until she was tossed out. She snorted. As much money as the Hunters donated to this hospital yearly, they should name the sucker after her. She closed her eyes and thought about the girl, woman really, that lay so still on the bed. Her name was Josephine Delilah Foster, twenty-six, and the only child of Mary and Donald Foster. It was probably just as well she’d been their only child. By all accounts they hadn’t cared much for the one they had. She’d been living with a grandmother who seemed more inclined to get loaded up on Friday night and stay that way until Friday morning of the next week.
