Mine.
Not in possession.
In permanence.
The doctor clears his throat.
“Okay. That’s enough.”
I don’t let go.
“It’ll never be enough,” I growl weakly.
Hilary laughs through tears.
And the sound?
Better than any hit single I’ve ever made.
Chapter Thirty
Hilary
Hospitals are too bright.
Too loud.
Too cold.
I don’t remember the drive.
I don’t remember Nathan parking.
I only remember running the second the engine died.
“Excuse me—excuse me—David Mars. His plane. They said—where is he?”
The receptionist looks up, practiced calm on her face.
“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to?—”
“David,” I choke. “David Mars. He was on that plane. Please.”
She types.
Clicks.
The seconds stretch into something unbearable.
“Yes,” she says carefully. “He was brought in.”
Was.
The word slices.
“Is he?—?”
“I’m not authorized to release condition details.”