Chapter 7: Four Minutes

"Put him on," I said.

Will had gone completely still beside me, one arm still across my waist.

The phone clicked, and I heard the squeak of a hospital bed and a breath that hurt.

"Claire." Dean's voice was thin. "Don't let them stop me."

"You're nine hours out of surgery."

"I'm not asking you to stop it. I'm asking to be there."

"Why?"

"Because you shouldn't have to stand in that hallway alone."

He said it quickly.

I looked at the ceiling.

It was the same ceiling I'd looked at for nine years, and it still had the water stain shaped like Ohio.

"You're an adult," I said. "If you walk out of there, you walk out against medical advice, and I'm not signing for that."

"I'll sign for it myself."

"Then sign."

I hung up.

Will did not say a word about the fact that his hand was warm on my hip.

At 8:40 the City-County Building smelled like floor wax and wet wool.

I wore the red coat.

I'd bought it the week the papers came, the first thing in nine years I had chosen without asking what anyone else would think.

Will stood by the stairwell with his hands in his pockets, off duty in jeans.

At 8:51 the elevator opened.

Patty came out first, pushing nothing, holding her purse in both hands.

Behind her, an orderly from the hospital held the doors, and Dean's best friend came out with a walker in his arms like a man carrying a baby.

And then Dean.

He was in gray sweatpants and a hospital-issue shirt with a winter coat thrown over his shoulders.

His face was the color of dishwater.