Chapter 20 · The Gold Wax Seal

The hospice lot was pure black ice.

I took the corner at thirty. Both hands choking the wheel. My back tires kicked out, caught pavement by a prayer, and slammed me forward.

My coat was half on. My boots weren't tied.

Twenty minutes ago, back at the loft, Garrett had said my name once. Low. Flat. Like a hammer tapping an anvil.

I hadn't stayed around to hear whatever came next. My mouth still tasted like raw iron and cold air.

Harbor Light's double front doors were wedged wide open with an overturned rubber trash can.

You don't prop open a hospice door in Maine in the dead of February.

Not unless you're wheeling something out.

The second wrong thing: the whole east wing was pitch-black.

The third: the stink. Burnt coffee, scorched dust, that sharp electrical sizzle a building gets right when the backup juice kicks on after a blowout.

I sprinted down the linoleum hallway. Room 9.

My mother's room.

The ventilator was clicking. Its green monitor line spiked and dipped. Her chest rose. Held. Fell.

She was still there. Still breathing. Her cheek looked like damp tissue paper pressed against the pillow.