Chapter 10: Visiting Hours

The divorce petition went in at nine on Monday morning, and the clerk stamped it.

I carried a bag of sandwiches across the street to Lakeshore General at noon.

Samson had texted me, "Eight hours into a twelve. If you bring food I will propose."

I texted back, "Too soon."

He sent a skull.

The ER waiting room was packed, with a toddler wailing in the corner and an old man holding a bloody towel to his chin.

A nurse with a gray braid and a lanyard covered in cartoon cats looked me up and down at the desk.

"You're the sandwiches," she said.

"I'm the sandwiches."

"Dr. Weir has been smiling at his phone for two days. Go on back."

I had taken three steps toward the double doors when the automatic entrance slid open behind me.

"Hannah."

I knew it without turning.

Ethan stood on the mat in his good navy coat, with a bouquet of white roses wrapped in brown paper.

He had shaved, but his sleepless look seemed rehearsed for an audience.

Every head in the waiting room turned.

"I've been calling you for two days," he said.

"I know. I blocked your number."

"You filed. I got the papers at the office." He lowered his voice. "Han, you can't just do this to us."

"I just did."

"Can we talk somewhere private?"

"No."

He glanced around the crowded room, and his voice went louder, the way it does when he wants an audience.

"My wife is pregnant, and she's confused, and she won't answer my calls."