Simon shook his head. "Outpatient appointment. He is fine. We are heading home."
The elevator at the end of the corridor dinged.
Marta moved toward it. She didn't say goodbye.
Simon hesitated at the doors. "Mr. Cross."
"Simon."
"I don't want to push. I know this isn't the time, but it has been two weeks. Have you — have you had a chance?"
I hadn't even gotten the folder out of the car. "I haven't opened it. I will. This week. I promise you."
He nodded and held the elevator with his hand on the door. Marta was in the back of the elevator. She was looking at the floor.
"Mr. Cross. There is a girl at Memorial."
"Yeah?"
"Her family stopped returning calls two weeks ago. Her case is connected to Dylan's. She — she could be a donor. If you read the folder, it has the connection laid out. It is in the back of the file."
"Yeah."
"If you have a chance."
"I'll look at it."
He nodded and stepped into the elevator. The doors closed.
I stood in the corridor with the coffee.
I had now made the same promise twice in under a week. I had promised Sabrina, in the back of an alley, that I wouldn't fall in love with her, and I'd been lying. I had promised Simon, in a hospital corridor, that I would read the folder, and I had been delaying.
The folder was in my car in the garage. I could get it and open it now, but I decided to wait.
I threw the coffee away and went back to the room.
Mrs. Park was there.
She was older than I had pictured her. Gray hair pulled back, a soft cardigan over a turtleneck, a quilted bag over her shoulder. She hadn't been there when I had left the room. She had come up while I'd been at the coffee machine.
She was speaking to Bonnie, telling her, slow and patient, that Pickles was fine. He had eaten breakfast and had walked across her keyboard.
Mrs. Park stopped when she saw me.
She looked at me, then at Sabrina and Bonnie. "Is that him?"
Bonnie nodded.
Mrs. Park turned back to me. She was, I suspected, evaluating me. "I'm Mrs. Park. I live downstairs from her."
"Beau Cross. Nice to meet you."
She nodded once and pulled a plastic container out of her quilted bag. She set it on the rolling table beside Bonnie's bed and opened it. The smell came up — rice and stewed beef, and a sauce I couldn't identify and could only have been made by Mrs. Park.
"Bonnie, you eat this. You’ve had enough green Jell-O."
"I know, Mrs. Park."
