Vivian.
Vivian.
Vivian.
Vivian.
I frown, a flicker of unease cutting through the calm I just managed to find.
“What the—?” I tap Vivian’s name, and the message opens.
Vivian:
I’m at the hospital with my grandmother.
Everything in me goes still, and then moves at warp speed. I don’t even think about it as I run down the hallway, keys in my hand, heart kicking up hard and sharp in my chest.
No overthinking. No second-guessing.
Just one clear, immediate thought?—
Get to her.
Hospitals areloud in a way that doesn’t make sense to me. Not loud like an arena. Not loud like a crowd. They’re sharp and layered. The rhythm is constant. The beeping. Voices. Shoes squeaking against polished floors. A cart rattles somewhere down a hall while a phone rings that doesn’t get answered fast enough.
It all hits at once when I walk through the doors, and my brain does that thing where it tries to take all of it in at the same time. To sort it, prioritize it, or make it manageable.
And underneath it, louder than it should be, is the thought I can’t shake, even though I know I should.
I wasn’t there when she needed me.
It loops, slipping in between everything else, catching on the noise, sticking there. I should’ve seen the text. I should’ve been there. I should’ve…
Another cart rattles past. Someone laughs too loudly. A voice calls out a name that isn’t mine, but my head turns anyway.
Focus, Ty. One foot in front of the other. That’s the goal. One thing. One person. Get to her.
But everything keeps crowding in, stacking, pressing, asking to be noticed all at once, and I can feel myself trying to grab hold of all of it instead of letting anything go.
Like if I can just get it all lined up, just get it in order, then I’ll be able to move, able to think. Like I’ll be able to make it manageable.
I slow for half a second, forcing a breath in.
Find her.
I move toward the front desk, the words already lining up in my head before I say them.
“I’m looking for…” I pause, reset. “Vivian Sullivan. Her grandmother was admitted. I have the room number.”
The nurse gives me directions—left, then right, down the long corridor, second wing—and I nod, repeating it back once to lock it in.
Left. Right. Long corridor.
I turn, moving faster now, the sounds following me, pressing in, but I keep my focus narrow. Follow the directions. Follow the numbers on the doors.
Left. Right. Long corridor.
I turn the corner, stopping when I do. She’s at the far end of the hall, slumped in a chair, elbows on her knees, head in her hands like she’s trying to hold herself together and not quite managing it.
