My voice trails off. I haven’t cried like this in years, not since losing… I can’t think about that now. I feel small and devastated, wishing I could take her place, wishing I could rewind time and make better choices, go a different route, anything to have spared her this. Wearing comfortable scrubs against my father’s nearly invincible shoulder, I feel like a child in pajamas, being consoled after a nightmare.

Only the bad dream is real.

“It’s okay, Tripp,” another voice cuts through, splintering my moment with Dad. “Wade and I are here for you, too.”

“No, we’re not.” Wade shoves a paper bag at me. “Here’s what we could salvage from your truck.”

I eye the contents—a hoodie, my medical bag, odds and ends, and my phone. The screen is cracked, but it works.

“We brought Marnie’s things,” Christie chimes in. “Her phone. Her veil, though it’s… how is she?”

“She’s… I don’t know.”

“Cops’ll be here soon,” Wade says. “They’ll have questions.”

“They can wait,” my father insists as I plop back into the nearest chair and run my hands over my fuzzy head. I plant my elbows on my knees, staving off a rising panic. She has to be okay.

“They don’t take kindly to assholes who leave the scene of an accident,” Wade says gruffly.

“What are you implying?” Dad returns, hands going hip-side.

“Stating facts, Mack. That’s all.”

“Yeah, you’d know all about cops and accidents.”

“Look, I don’t need this,” Wade huffs.

“Stop fucking talking,” I order. “No bullshit today. Please.”

Dad glares at his wiry, unkempt brother like he wants to challenge him. His jaw twitches in a forced sigh. Then, he extends his hand. “Your help is appreciated, Wade.”

“Just doing my civic fucking duty,” he grunts, refusing the handshake. “Christie, let’s get out of here.”

“But, Wade, you promised we’d see how she is,” Christie whines.

Harsh heel-clicks storm through the corridor. Cora Sullivan appears in the waiting room’s large glass window, looking one way, then another, in privileged frustration as if the entire hospital should stop for her.

“Can someone tell us where to find Marnie Strange?” she calls out to no one in particular.

The nurse with the heart headband appears and directs her and the two tuxedoed men behind her into the waiting room. Our waiting room.

Cora enters wearing a long, dramatically sequined red evening gown that swishes and tinkles when she walks. Her husband, Wes, follows, head lowered and hands crossed at his waist. His red rose boutonnière hangs crookedly on his lapel. He looks bored like he’d rather be home with a crossword.

Finally, Ashe bumbles in. His hair has been shellacked into an immovable brick on his head, but otherwise, he looks like I’d expect—distraught, frustrated, worried.