The instant I heard her crying, my stomach sank.
“Caleb,” she choked out. “It’s Ethan.”
My hand went numb. The mop dropped onto the marble floor.
“What happened?”
“There’s been a shooting. Mercy General. Please… just hurry.”
I don’t remember the drive there. I remember red lights, my hands gripping the steering wheel, and one thought repeating endlessly in my mind: Please let my son be alive.
When I rushed into the emergency department, Laura stood outside Trauma Bay Three, trembling so badly she could barely remain upright.
Then I looked through the glass.
Ethan was lying there.
My seventeen-year-old son. Captain of his high school basketball team. The kid who left his sneakers in the hallway and raided the refrigerator after midnight.
Now his face was drained of color from the pain.
Both legs were covered in thick bandages already soaked dark red.
A doctor came out, and I froze.
