Instead, a nurse hurried toward me in the hallway.
“Sir, are you Caleb? The tow driver?”
I nodded cautiously.
“There’s a child asking for you. He refuses to speak to anyone else.”
That made no sense. I didn’t know any kids here. Still, curiosity pulled me down a dim corridor toward the pediatric wing, where machines hummed softly behind half-closed doors.
Inside room 214 lay a frail seven-year-old boy named Evan Brooks. His skin looked almost translucent beneath fluorescent lights, and an oxygen tube rested beneath his nose. But his eyes — wide, alert, desperate — locked onto me the moment I stepped inside.
“You’re the truck guy,” he whispered.
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