Erin's already trying to stand, water sloshing everywhere. I grab a towel and wrap it around her, holding her steady because she's shaking so badly I'm afraid she'll fall.
“I'm coming,” Erin says.
The line goes dead.
Erin stares at the phone in my hand like it's a weapon. Then she makes this sound—this horrible, broken sound that tears something in my chest.
“I need to—I have to—” She's trying to move, but she can't seem to make her body work properly.
“Easy, love. Easy.” I guide her out of the bath, keeping the towel wrapped around her. “I've got you. We'll get you dressed, and I'll drive you there.”
“The tribute—” She gasps. “We were supposed to find?—”
“Fuck the tribute.” The words come out hard, fierce. “Your sister comes first. Always.”
She looks up at me then, and Christ, the devastation in her eyes nearly brings me to my knees.
“She can't die, Cavin. She's twenty-two. She's my baby sister. She can't—” A sob cuts her off.
I pull her against my chest, not giving a shite that she's soaking through my shirt. “We're going to get there. And we're going to figure this out. I promise you. Whatever it takes.”
I dry her off quickly, efficiently, then help her dress. She's moving on autopilot now, the shock setting in. I grab my coat and keys, and we're out the door in under five minutes.
The drive to St. Vincent's feels like it takes a lifetime and no time at all. Erin sits rigid in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead, her hands twisted together in her lap so tightly I'm worried she'll break her own fingers.
“Breathe, love,” I murmur, reaching over to take one of her hands. “Just breathe.”
“I should have visited her yesterday. I was going to, but then we got caught up with the files, and I thought—I thought I had time.” Her voice cracks. “What if I don't get to say goodbye?”
“You'll get to say goodbye. Or better yet, you'll get to tell her to stop being dramatic and get well.”
She lets out a sound that's half laugh, half sob. “She is dramatic. Always has been. Mam says she got all the personality, and I got all the brains.”
“You've got plenty of personality, lass.Trustme.”
That makes her giggle, which feels like a huge win right now.
She squeezes my hand. “Will you come in with me?”
I squeeze her hand back. “Try and stop me.”
We pull up to the hospital, and I find a spot near the emergency entrance. Erin's out of the car before I've even turned offthe engine, running toward the doors. I follow close behind, catching up to her in the lobby.
Her mother is there, looking a decade older than she did at our wedding. Her eyes are red-rimmed, her hair disheveled.
“Erin, thank god.” She pulls Erin into her arms. “She's stable for now, but the doctors want to talk to us. Your father's already in with them.”
Erin nods, swallowing hard. She glances back at me.
“Go,” I say quietly. “I'll be right here.”
She hesitates for just a second, then follows her mother down the corridor.
I sink into one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs and pull out my phone. Dr. Rosenberg answers on the second ring.
“McCarthy. Bit early for a social call.”
“I need a favor,” I say without preamble. “A big one.”
