“She asked for you.”
“Maybe she’s on medication.”
“She is. It doesn’t make her less nosy.”
That gets a tiny smile from Lily.
I grab the keys.
The truck ride to the hospital is quiet. Peyton sits with her hands locked in her lap, staring out at the fields like she is trying to memorize the distance between every fence post. She is nervous.
She should be.
This is not a credentialed area or a press seat.
This is my mother.
At the hospital, Dad sits beside Mom’s bed holding her hand. Mom is propped against pillows, pale and small in a way I hate with my whole body.
Then she sees me.
“There’s my boy.”
My throat closes.
I cross the room and kiss her forehead. “How are you feeling?”
“Like someone cracked open my chest and rearranged the furniture.” She squeezes my hand. “But I’m alive, so I’ll take it.”
Her gaze shifts to Peyton, who stands just inside the door like she is ready to retreat if anyone breathes wrong.
“You must be Peyton.”
“Mrs. McAllister. I’m so glad you’re okay.”
“Susan.” Mom points to the empty chair on the other side of the bed. “Sit before you make me crane my neck. I have had a dramatic morning.”
Peyton sits.
I brace.
Mom looks at her for one long, terrifying second.
“I read your article.”
Peyton’s hands tighten in her lap.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You were hard on my son.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Were you wrong?”
Peyton goes still.
I do too.
