I went back to the hard plastic chair and sat down. I slowly finished the coffee, which had cooled to a drinkable temperature, but there wasn’t enough caffeine to keep me awake. I jerked back to consciousness about thirty minutes later and went down to the cafeteria to get something to eat. I was just returning from a short walk outside when the doors to the trauma room opened and a bed was rolled out by two nurses. A young, pale woman with dark hair matted with blood lay on the bed, tubes and wires running all over the place like some freak science experiment. A steady beep emanated from a machine that one of the nurses was rolling along beside the bed as they disappeared down the hall.

I wandered back to the chairs and sat down again. Relief flooded through me. She was obviously stable, or they wouldn’t be moving her. But now I was in an awkward position. No one had come for her yet, and I felt funny just leaving when she was all alone.

Two women ran past me into the ER and up to the reception desk. “We’re the Uptons,” the older woman said. They appeared to be mother and daughter. “We were called about Grace Winslowe. Is she all right? Is she still here?”

The nurse responded with something I couldn’t hear and then motioned for them to sit in the waiting area. She walked away, then returned a moment later and sat back down behind the desk. The women watched the nurse, and any other hospital staff that walked by, with tense, anxious faces. The older woman put her arm around the younger one, and they bent their heads low and together and spoke quietly until the doctor I’d spoken to walked up to the waiting area and called for them. The women’s heads bobbed up, and they stood and rushed up to the doctor. He led them down the hall and out of sight.

Grace Winslowe. Was that her name? I wondered if we were all here to see the same woman. I debated following them to see whose room they went to, but decided this was probably not the wisest course. I would just sit and wait for one of them to show up again.

It didn’t actually take that long. About ten minutes later the younger one walked back to the reception desk and asked the nurse a question. The nurse pointed to the hot drinks machine hidden in the back corner of the waiting area. The young woman walked past me to the machine, rubbing a hand over her face. I stood and approached her as she waited for the machine to finish trickling her order into the cup.

“Excuse me, ma’am?” I startled her; she jumped and gasped, then slumped against the beverage machine.

“Oh, I’m so sorry—”