“A private waiting room down the hall.” She glared at the men who cheered the game on the television set.

“Did you see her?”

Bree shook her head. “They took her straight from emergency to surgery.”

I absentmindedly rubbed my left shoulder. My shoulders always ached when I was nervous or tense due to years of being hunched over a painter’s easel.

“I can take you to the waiting room. Olivia’s family will be happy to see you.”

“No, I don’t think that—”

“This way,” she said. She turned around and headed down the corridor. Just as she was about to disappear around a corner, I jogged after her.

“Down the hall” was almost the other side of Mars. I followed Bree’s brisk pace through the hospital corridors, weaving in and out of wards and around hospital staff in ugly white sneakers. I stared resolutely at the back of Bree’s trim ankles as she cruised down the hall, unable to stand the suffering lining the hallways. The deeper we traveled into the hospital, the more sterile the air became. I vowed never again to complain about the smell of moldy books donated by retired Martin professors.

We dodged a crash cart. “You seem to know your way around, Bree; have you been to this hospital before?”

Without breaking stride, her voice floated back to me. “No, but I’ve been in a lot of hospitals.”

Nearly toppling a food cart, I abandoned conversation.

After more turns than I could count, Bree halted abruptly in front of a heavy-looking forest green door. Through the door’s small window, I caught of glimpse of Dr. Blocken and Kirk filling an overstuffed loveseat, each crowded against an opposite arm, apparently in an effort not to touch each other. Although I couldn’t see her, I knew that Mrs. Blocken lay in wait, pacing the floor and undoubtedly accosting hospital staff anytime someone chanced by.