or rush over. She pulled a chair to the bedside, sat down, and took Wendy’s hand with a firm, warm grip.
“You’re safe,” she said. “I need to tell you some things. Not right now. When you’re ready.”
“How long?” Wendy whispered, her voice barely audible.
“Three weeks. Surgery went well. You’re going to be fine.”
Her father arrived at 2:17 that afternoon. She watched his face carefully when he walked through the door. There was a flicker — half a second — before his expression rearranged itself into something softer, something practiced. She had read a thousand faces in the ICU. Fear of losing someone looks different from fear of being caught.
He rushed to her bedside, grabbed her hand, tears on his cheeks. “Oh, sweetheart. We were so scared. Thank God you’re okay.”
“Hi, Dad,” she said quietly.
Two days later, when she could sit up on her own, Pat
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