A woman of my age comes in at last. A green operating blouse and one of those funny little paper hats surgeons wear. Shrewd hazel eyes, short chestnut hair touched with silver. She smiles. My heart leaps. I rush to my feet.

“That was a close call, Monsieur Rey,” she says.

I notice small brown stains on the front of her uniform. I wonder with dread whether those stains are Mélanie’s blood.

“Your sister is going to be all right.”

To my horror, my face crumples up, tears spill out. My nose runs. I am acutely embarrassed to be crying in front of this woman, but I can’t prevent it.

“It’s okay,” the doctor says. She grips my arm. She has small, square hands. She pushes me back down into the chair, sits beside me. I bawl the way I used to when I was a kid, deep sobs that come from the gut.

“She was driving, right?”

I nod, try to tidy up my damp nostrils with the back of my hand.

“We know she wasn’t drinking. We checked that. Can you tell me what happened?”

I manage to repeat what I told the police and the ambulance people earlier on. That my sister wanted to drive the rest of the way home. That she was a reliable driver. That I had never been nervous with her at the wheel.

“Did she black out?” asks the doctor. The name on her badge reads: DR. BÉNÉDICTE BESSON.

“No, she didn’t.”

And then it comes back to me. Something I had not told the ambulance people, because I only remember it just now.

I look down at the doctor’s small, tanned face. My own face is still twitching with the crying. I catch my breath.

“My sister was in the middle of telling me something… She turned to me. And then it happened. The car drove off the highway. It happened so fast.”