A few minutes later, as I stood by the nurse’s station, my phone rang. I frowned. Late-night calls were never good news.
Then the nurse’s voice cut through the noise. “Dr. Peterson… the emergency contact for the patient—” She hesitated, her face pale as she looked between me and the chart.
My phone kept ringing. I swallowed hard. “Who is it?”
She barely got the words out. “J. Peterson.”
My world tilted.
The phone slipped from my hands, clattering against the floor. The nurses were saying something, but I couldn’t hear them. I turned, my breath shallow, and looked back at the man in the bed.
Voir la suite sur la page suivante:
