Her shoulders relaxed. “Well, there’s coffee that way if you need it. I’ll be back with updates as soon as I can.”

I thanked her and settled in for a long wait, watching local news on the wall-mounted TV for God knew how long. Deaths, political scandals, protesters.

I closed my eyes, wanting the drone of it gone.

Bliss to anger to confusion to terror today, and it was only just after noon. A wave of longing washed over me, wishing Oscar were here holding my hand, but the bigger part of me hoped he hadn’t heard. That he had his music blinders on, nothing to distract him from his symphony.

I opened my eyes to see a flash of scrubs, a doctor. He kept passing, and I relaxed—but then the front desk receptionist pointed in my direction and he turned with a squint.

“Ruby Chertok?” he asked, mispronouncing my last name.

I nodded, tucking my legs tight under the chair.

The doctor crouched in front of me with a blandly cheerful expression. “I’m Dr. Singh.” He offered his hand for a quick shake. “So your father has suffered what we call a coronary spasm . . .”

“Oh,” I muttered, relieved. “I’m sorry, I thought he’d had a heart attack.”

“In this case, it did lead to a heart attack,” he said, almost apologetically.

“Okay.” I swallowed.

“He’s conscious, resting, responding well to treatment. But because this is a relapse occurrence and the medication he’s been taking isn’t affecting his arrhythmia as much as I would like, I’m recommending we install a pacemaker. It’s a simple procedure . . .”

Dr. Singh pulled a laminated info graphic sheet out of nowhere to show me where the pacemaker would go, what the risks were, how long the recovery would be, but it was too much to absorb. My mind was busy pinballing wildly between key words he’d said—medication, arrhythmia, relapse.

How long had my father had heart problems?

The doctor had stopped talking. He was watching me.

“Um.” My throat felt too tight to force words out. “When will he go into surgery?”

“We have an opening at four. Could be sooner, depending on how the day goes. He’ll be prepped by three.”

“Okay,” I got out. “Thank you.”

The doctor walked briskly through the sliding doors and I exhaled. Then I put my head in my hands and tried to rub sense into it.

“Rooster.” Alice’s voice drew me upward.

She was wearing a white T-shirt and shorts, practically a tourist. But her face was hollowed with worry.

I stood and hugged her with a gasp. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry, I didn’t call you, I should have called you right away . . . what was I thinking?”

“It’s okay,” she said into my hair. “I’m his In Case of Emergency, so it got to me.”

“You just missed the doctor.”