STICKING TO the plan, I left for Sunset Villa at daybreak, with Russell riding shotgun. The puncture wounds in my shoulder ached, still stinging from the mouthwash I’d applied before replacing the EMT bandages with little round stick-ons. I was going to have to bite the proverbial bullet and check in with my HMO, since there might be some muscular damage, not to mention potential infection, but that was priority number 2. Number 1 was seeing Lillian.

I felt a little guilty about not calling Greer and Jolie before I left, or even in transit, but I rationalized that it was too early to call. My foster sisters were grown women, they had access to reliable transportation and they knew something big was going on with Lillian. Besides, if it had been up to me, we wouldn’t have left her in the first place.

Hunger struck, midway down the 101, so Russell and I took an exit, whipped through a drive-through and breakfasted on sausage biscuits, with cheese and eggs.

When we arrived at the nursing home, there was an ambulance parked in the side-bay, lights whirling, motor running, back doors open and waiting, like a giant mouth, to swallow somebody.

An instant and elemental panic seized me.

I buzzed a window partway down for Russell’s breathing convenience, slopped a bottle of water into the bowl I’d brought along for the purpose, locked the Volvo and bolted for the main entrance.

I’m not psychic, regular ghost interactions and slot machine mojo aside, but somehow I knew the bell was tolling, and it tolled for Lillian.

I ran past the reception desk and along the corridor, repeating a frantic litany under my breath.

No, no, please, no…

Every nurse in the place must have been in Lillian’s room, along with two EMTs who’d arrived with the ambulance. The stillness was terrible; nobody was moving. It was an underwater scene, everything blurred.

My cry was like a stone, shattering fragile glass.

“Lillian!”

I rushed toward her bed, where she lay with her eyes closed, mummylike, ready to crumble at the slightest touch. Rotika, looking some the worse for wear, caught me in a two-arm body hold.

“She’s gone,” she said.

I struggled, but I was no match for Rotika. “No!” I screamed.

“I’m sorry,” Rotika said, without slackening her grip. The woman could have been a bouncer at Bad-Ass Bert’s, she was that strong.

The room came into sharp focus, with an abruptness that made me queasy. The colors were brighter, the lines knife sharp. One of the EMTs was still holding a pair of defibulator paddles. He set them back in their holders with a sigh of resignation.

Rotika shuffled me out of the room. I didn’t struggle; by then, I was counting on her to hold me up. All the starch had gone out of my knees, and my backbone had melted like beeswax left in the Arizona sun.