The rain had already soaked through my jacket by the time I pushed through the sliding doors of the emergency entrance, the storm outside hammering the city of Indianapolis with the kind of cold, relentless rain that made the streets shine like broken glass under the hospital lights. My boots left wet prints across the polished floor as I stepped inside, my breathing uneven, my hands trembling so badly I had to curl them into fists just to keep them steady.
Less than forty minutes earlier, my phone had rung while I was fixing a loose cabinet hinge in the garage. I almost ignored it, thinking it was another spam call.
But then I heard the words that changed everything.
“Mr. Nathan Walker? This is Mercy Valley Medical Center. Your wife has been involved in a severe motor vehicle collision.”
The world seemed to tilt.
They told me she had been hit by a speeding SUV at an intersection only three blocks from her office. Her car had spun across two lanes before crashing into a traffic pole. By the time paramedics arrived, she was unconscious.
Now she was in surgery.
