How it started …
MARCH
Chapter One
Sommer
A red sedan slammed to a stop with a bright chirp of wheels protesting against the sudden change in velocity.
Jumping from the car, engine idling, door left standing wide, a man raced around the support column of the Emergency Department’s receiving bay toward the back of the ambulance, beating the driver to the rear door.
Sommer reached into the pocket of her flower-covered scrubs and pulled out a fresh pair of Nitrile gloves, sliding them onto her hands without focus, her feet in perpetual motion as she moved through the door and over to intervene.
The ambulance’s lights still flashed their distress signal, as the man with the middle-aged paunch and a ponytail of long, thinning black hair reached out and put one hand, then the other, on the side of the ambulance door. There, he spread his legs and tipped his head down, his shoulders heaving.
The EMT had rounded to the back from the other direction and pushed the guy out of his way, with the look of hard focus that Sommer had learned to read as “I’m not sure we made it here in time.”
With the doors open, Sommer shifted out of the way, waiting for the paramedic to unload the patient and give her a readout.
Sommer could see a tousle of brown curls, an oxygen mask, and a sheet-encased form.
From her new vantage point, Sommer searched out the man who had emerged from the red sedan. He couldn’t abandon his car there. It was blocking the ambulance’s egress, and theopen door slowed the steady traffic that continued to pour toward the Emergency Department.
It was a full moon.
Police officers and emergency rooms alike had girded their loins for the monthly chaos.
For Sommer, that mostly meant an extra protein shake before her shift because she knew she’d need the stamina.
Shuffling to the side, Sommer locked eyes with the man. His eyebrows had slid up his forehead toward his hairline, leaving him with a look of enduring surprise.
Unblinking, clammy, and pale, his hands stretched into claws as if he wanted to reach his fingers into the side of the ambulance and grip it tight.
As more staff showed up to assist and they pushed the gurney toward the automatic doors, the man released the ambulance and pitched forward as he took two staggering steps toward the entrance.
“Hey there, hey.” Sommer caught the man’s arm to keep him from falling. “We need to get your car moved.” Sommer used her body to block his attempt to head into the hospital.
The man’s eyes were vacant as he tried to focus on her. His mouth dropped open, then he bent to put his hands on his knees.
And as he went over, Sommer got a whiff of his hair. He smelled like the top of an infant’s head—a little sweaty, a little bit like honey, maybe like a children’s sugary cereal when moistened with milk.
It was a dangerous smell for anyone past their infancy.
Sommer glanced down at the man’s wrists, and there was no medical bracelet. She looked at the back of his neck, saw a necklace, and dragged it into her hand.
Type one diabetic.
He rounded his back and released globs of vomit onto the cement.
Fortunately or not, Sommer had been a nurse for long enough that the first little flinch of upcoming upchuck and her body, without reflection or encouragement, jumped back.
She missed the splash.
The man had been eating spaghetti.
“Sir? Hey, sir?” Sommer used a clear, commanding voice to get him to focus.
The man swayed on his feet, and Sommer edged him over to the ambulance so he could lean against the side for support. “What’s your name, sir?”
