“Ben?”
He wiped his face and turned toward me.
“Rough night, Chels. Go back to sleep.”
That Tuesday, when I saw him leave the house with his hospital ID in his pocket, I decided to surprise him.
I prepared his favorite lunch, packed a slice of apple pie, tucked in a little note, and drove to the hospital, imagining how happy he would be to see me.
Instead, I found Arnold crying.
“Where is Ben?” I asked.
Arnold hesitated.
“Chelsea, you need to talk to him.”
— I was just about to. Where is he? Isn’t he in the operating room?
He pointed toward the end of the hallway.
I headed there before he could say anything else.
The door to Ben’s office was ajar.
I pushed it open.
An open folder lay on his desk.
On one page was an address in Oregon.
On the other — a start date six weeks from now.
