I looked down at my phone. It was after midnight. I’d been in the hospital for five hours. I might not have an Uber account, but I knew I could call a taxi. I’d never seen one in Marin, but they had to exist. The hospital could probably even give me the number for a taxi service.

I called Steph.

Chapter 39

Usually, climbing into Steph’s truck was like stepping through a doorway into our secret world, but tonight things were different. Our world had crashed into this one. In the truck’s dim overhead light, Steph looked worried. “How is she?” she asked.

“Asleep.” I closed the truck door and the light went out, leaving us in the glare of the emergency room sign. Steph pulled out of the ER driveway and headed for the hospital exit.

“Your family’s coming?” she said.

“Yeah. Tomorrow.”

We turned onto a wide, four-lane road with a central median. There was no traffic. In the distance was a big church, the cross lit up on top of its Mission-style cupola.

“Thanks for coming to get me,” I said.

“No worries. I hope she’s okay.”

Now that I was no longer in the ER, I felt completely drained from waiting. I shivered.

“Are you cold?” Steph asked, and she waved her hand in front of the vents. “It takes a while to warm up.”

“I’m okay.”

She reached over and put her hand on my thigh. I could feel her warm palm through the fabric of my jeans. I leaned my head back against the seat and looked at her profile, outlined by the white lights of the dashboard. She kept her eyes on the road. After a while I laced my fingers with hers. She drove all the way to Woodacre holding my hand, not letting go even when she shifted gears.

—

The front door was closed—maybe the firefighters had closed it—but still unlocked. As soon as I turned the doorknob, Analemma started barking. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” I called as I went up the stairs, flipping on the lights. Her barking quieted, and when I opened the bedroom door, she burst out wagging her tail. Steph came up the stairs into the living room, and Analemma ran over to her.

Steph knelt down to rub her ears. “Hey, Ana.”

I called Aunt Tammy to tell her I was back. While I talked to her, Analemma nosed around the floor, sniffing at the tomato paw prints she’d left earlier. I followed her through the living room, past the Southern Cross painting, and into the kitchen, where the tomatoes had made a gigantic mess. There was a clump of them where Joan had dropped the pot, red footprints from the firefighters and paramedics and me, and a big smear where I had pulled Joan across the floor.