Sylvie stands, wriggles out of her pants, almost trips getting one leg off, giggles then straddles me, only a silk scrap of panty left between us. She yanks off my flannel shirt, nails skimming along my sides. Nerves scream, every inch of me erect.

The phone rings again. Bullfrogs. I throw my phone and it hits the wall. Sylvie pulls me free from my boxers, slides a hand down my shaft. I’m desperate to be inside her—

Again bullfrogs. Shit. “I’m sorry, I have to get it.” Sylvie retrieves the phone, hands it to me. Breathing hard, I say, “Hello?”

“I’m sorry to bother you,” my mom says. “I know you’re busy.”

Voice tight, I ask, “Can it wait?”

“Old lady problems. I fell. Doc says my hip is broken. I’m having surgery to pin it—they’re getting me ready now. Just wanted you to know, in case . . .”

She’s talking too loud, sounds scared. “What hospital?”

“Legacy.”

“I’ll be there when you wake up.”

“You don’t have to come all the way—”

“I’ll be there,” I say and hang up. “I’m sorry.” Sylvie tugs on her jeans, tosses my flannel shirt over.

“Let’s go,” she says.

“Where?”

“The hospital.”

Taken aback, I say, “You don’t have to come.”

“I know.”

I button my shirt. “Are you just being nice to me because my mom is hurt?”

“Maybe.”

We leave Chris and Moose in the room with food and fresh water, hang the do not disturb sign for a disappointing reason, and head to the hospital. In the Uber, Sylvie holds my hand.

THIRTY-FIVE

Sylvie

When the elevator doors open to a brightly painted pink hallway, it’s clear that the elderly woman at the information desk has sent us to the wrong floor. We follow signs to the nurses’ station, past murals of birds, mountains, and children swimming in a river beneath a cloudless sky. At the main desk Thomas asks for directions to the adult surgical wing, his tone impatient. He might not like his mother, but he loves her—enough to interrupt sex. What game am I playing anyway? He’s made it clear that the exposé will still be published. Isn’t it time to turn the tables?

“There’s a shortcut. Take the right-hand elevators down the hall there to the fourth floor,” a nurse in scrubs spotted with smiling daisies says. “Then take the skyway across to double doors that lead to the surgical wing.”

We skirt a family that walks a little boy down the hall. There’s a cannula under his nose and his Superman hospital gown can’t hide the jut of sharp collarbones. Behind him a man, probably his dad, wheels a green oxygen tank; his jaw is set in a smile, eyes rimmed red. Mom and the boy’s little sisters make small talk, point to the mobiles of neon-colored butterflies overhead.

When we reach the elevators, Thomas presses the up button three times. At the end of the hall are double doors with a sign: inpatient children’s psychiatric unit. all visitors must be buzzed in.