He’s no longer the scrawny third baseman I vaguely remember from my brother, Marty’s, high school team. He’s still thin, lanky, like his Dad, but broader in the shoulders and his chin more defined. He flicks his hands at his wrists, anxious with energy he doesn’t know what to do with.

“When can I see her?” He bounds around the nurse like a kid, trying to get an adult’s attention.

“Soon. I’ll check on her status and return with an update.” She disappears down the hall.

Cora locks eyes on our group, narrowing her heavily made-up gaze. “Mack Tripp? What’s your family doing here?”

“Grady was involved in the accident,” my father answers.

I stand, cutting between the men around me. “I hit her. I fell asleep around a curve, and… I hit her.”

Ashe’s face goes from anxious to angry in a heartbeat. He looks unsurely at his mom before lunging in my direction. He bangs his knee against a chair, clearly hurting himself, but continues to his target.

I don’t react. I deserve whatever this kid throws at me.

Only Wade steps in, catching Ashe’s fist in his palm like a baseball. “You’re upset. I get it. The Tripps are notorious for pissing people off. But, son, this isn’t the time or place for that.”

“Ashe, calm down,” his mother chides. “Let the police handle him.”

“I’m sorry,” I offer weakly. “I didn’t mean to… I’m sorry.”

“If I might interject,” Christie cuts in, moving between the two groups. Cora eyes his long, stringy gray hair and purple-painted fingernails like she might hiss at his gender nonconformity. “Grady hit her, but also saved her life. If not for his quick thinking, she would’ve bled out on Lakeview Avenue.”

This news only makes Ashe more agitated. “Seriously? Bled out?”

“From the fancy knife in her lap. The impact drove it right into her. She almost died,” Christie reports softly.

Ashe crumbles against his mom’s bare shoulder in a fit of tears.

“Perhaps it’s best to remain silent as we await news about our dear Marnie,” Cora suggests.

“Christie, we’re leaving. This place reeks of entitlement,” Wade says, but neither moves.

I offer the Sullivans the clipboard and pen. “I didn’t get very far with this.”

Cora’s head snaps toward her husband, already seated. “Wes, make yourself useful. Fill out Marnie’s paperwork.”

Her tone tenses my shoulders, but Wes doesn’t seem bothered. He accepts the task and almost looks glad for the distraction.

A uniformed police officer enters the room, with Detective Jim Watson behind. He’s my uncle, married to my Aunt Elena. Jim’s all-business demeanor silences the room.

“Make him take a breathalyzer,” Ashe orders. “And a drug test. He should be arrested.”