Chapter Text
Across the dot, Shane was looking down at his stick blade.
The linesman was holding the puck two seconds before the drop. Hayden was on the wing somewhere to the left in his blue Metros sweater. Cliff was beside Ilya, working his mouthguard. The cold of the ice came through Ilya's blades. His breath inside his helmet was hot, then gone, then hot again.
Shane looked up. His eyes found Ilya across the dot.
His eyes held.
Two seconds.
The puck dropped. Shane won it cleanly. His head came up to find the next play. Ilya was turning back to the puck. Shane was still looking up.
Cliff hit him from his blind side.
The hit was clean. Ilya saw it from the wrong angle — saw Cliff's shoulder, saw Shane's head turn the wrong way, saw Shane go down. His body limp. His helmet hitting the ice first. His stick on the ice. His body on the ice. The crowd rose. The crowd fell. The crowd went quiet.
Ilya's gloves were on the ice. He had not decided to drop them. His stick was on the ice. He pulled his helmet off and dropped it next to him. He was on his knees by Shane and could not remember the skating between the dot and where he was now. The ice was cold through his hockey pants. A player above him was yelling at the referee. One of his own teammates somewhere to his left was saying his name — Rozanov, hey, Rozanov, hey, man — and he did not turn his head.
Shane's eyes were open.
Shane's glove had come off somewhere. His bare hand right there, palm up, fingers half-curled. Ilya took it. Bare hand to bare hand. Shane's fingers cold. Shane's eyes on his.
"Ilya."
Small. Not slurred. Small. Shane knew him. Shane's eyes were tracking. Shane's voice. His name in Shane's voice on the ice in the third period of a game Shane should have been holding the puck through.
"Da. I am here. Shane. Hey. Look at me. Blyat, look at me. Hollander."
Shane's eyes on his.
The bruise on Shane's temple was spreading dark. Too dark. Too fast. A small cut at the hairline. A thread of red into the purple.
"Look at me. Da. I am here. Hey. Eyes here. Blyat blyat blyat."
The trainer was kneeling on Shane's other side now. Pierre. Pierre's hands on Shane's neck, fingers walking along the cervical spine, voice on the radio at his shoulder. The trainer's bag open. Gauze. Tape. Hayden had skated over and stopped hard, ice spraying — Hayden's face over Shane's face, blue Metros sweater bunching up at his elbows.
"Hollander. Hollander, hey. Look at me, buddy. Look at me."
Shane was looking at Ilya. Eyes open. Open.
"Look at me, Shane. Da. I am here."
"Rozanov. Back."
Ilya did not move.
Penlight out. Pierre holding it in front of Shane's left eye, then his right, then his left, saying something fast in French to the second trainer behind him. Ilya did not have French. Shane's pupils following the light. Slow. Tracking.
"Hollander, buddy. Look at me. Hey. Stay with me."
Shane's eyes came back to Ilya.
"I am here. Blyat. Here. Da."
Pierre's hand on Ilya's forearm — once, light — then off again. Pierre did not say anything to him. Pierre said something to the second trainer in French. The second trainer already on the radio.
Hayden somewhere — Rozanov, get the fuck back, Pierre needs the space, fuck, Rozanov, the trainer needs — and Ilya could not let go of Shane's hand. Shane's hand cold. Shane's hand in his. The bruise spreading. Shane's eyes on his. The rest of the arena very far away.
Shane's eyes on his. Eyes open. Hand in his. Eyes open.
The stretcher came onto the ice. Two paramedics in red, careful on the ice. Pierre speaking fast in French. Pierre's hands on Shane's neck collar, stabilizing. The paramedics on either side. Hayden behind Ilya, somewhere, in his gear, breathing too fast through his mouth.
Onto the stretcher. Slow. Three counts. Pierre counting. Un. Deux. Trois. Shane's hand still in Ilya's. The cervical collar around Shane's neck, white and stiff. Shane's head strapped to the board. Shane's eyes still tracking. Shane's hand still in his.
Ilya was on his feet. He did not know how. Skates, no gloves, no stick, no helmet. He walked alongside the stretcher. Hayden behind him, talking — English-shaped sounds Ilya could not assemble.
They went through the tunnel under the yellow lights. A camera flashed as they passed. Ilya did not turn his head. A man in a suit in a doorway was saying something to Pierre. A second man had a radio at his ear. Ilya did not turn his head.
They came out onto the loading dock. The big bay door was up. Cold air came in with snow on the concrete. The ambulance was already backed in, doors open, red lights cycling slowly and silently against the wall. The heavy smell of diesel from the still-running engine. Three paramedics were talking fast in French.
The paramedic at Shane's other side was a woman in her fifties. Short. Gray-blonde, hair pulled back. Reflective vest over her uniform. She looked at Ilya. Looked at Hayden. Looked at Shane's hand around Ilya's. Looked at Ilya again. Said something to her partner. Looked at Ilya a third time.
"Sir, I need you to step —"
"I am coming."
A beat. Her eyes did not change.
"Fine. Get in. Get in. Both of you. Now."
Shane's hand opened just enough. Ilya pulled his out and got onto the bench, and Shane's hand was closing on his again before he had fully sat down.
Hayden climbed in behind. Skates on the diamond plate of the ambulance step.
"Rozanov, what the fuck — what are you doing in here — what is —"
The doors shut, cutting him off mid-breath.
The ambulance was narrow inside. White walls, cabinets, equipment behind clear plastic. A monitor on the ceiling. The bench was hard and cold under his hockey pants. The paramedic was already working — IV port out, antiseptic wipe, tubing. The ambulance moved. The siren came on a beat later. The sound vibrated through the walls.
Hayden was on the bench across from him, knees apart, hands gripping the edge of the bench, helmet still on his head, face shield up. His eyes were huge.
"Hollander. Hey. Buddy. Hollander, you're okay, you're going to be okay, you're awake, right? He's awake, right? Look at me, Hollander, look at me — we were up two-one, buddy, we were taking this one, you remember your goal in the second? Beautiful fucking goal, top corner — Cliff hit you, Hollander, didn't he? It was clean, wasn't it? It was clean? He came in from your blind side, you didn't see him, Hollander, you were looking the wrong way, you weren't — ma’am, is he okay? Hollander, look at me — what the fuck are you doing here, Rozanov? He's looking at you. Why is he looking at you? Hollander. Hollander. Buddy."
"He is mine."
"What."
Shane's eyes were on his. Shane's hand in his.
"What did you —? What did he just — what?"
"Sir, I need you quiet," the paramedic said.
"I — wait, what did —"
"Sir."
"What."
"I need you quiet."
Hayden was quiet. For maybe two seconds.
"Rozanov. What."
"He is mine."
"What does that — Hollander, buddy, what does that — what did he just —"
The paramedic was sliding a needle into the back of Shane's hand — not the one Ilya was holding, the other one. The bag of saline going up on the hook above. Her hand on Shane's wrist, finger on the pulse. Her eyes on her watch. Her voice low and steady. "Blood pressure ninety-eight over sixty. Pulse seventy-two. GCS thirteen. Pupils equal and reactive, sluggish on the left."
Shane's eyes were on Ilya. Shane's mouth slightly open. The bruise on his temple darker still.
Bruise too dark. Eyes open. Hand in his.
"He is mine," Ilya said, quiet, under his breath.
"Fuck," Hayden said, hands in his hair, helmet pushed up over his fingers. "What's GCS thirteen mean? What does that —"
"Glasgow Coma Scale. Out of 15. 13 is conscious, responsive. He's responsive."
"He's responsive. He's — okay. Yeah. The pupil thing — the sluggish thing, on the left?"
"We watch it. He could have a concussion, but we won’t know until they do the scan. All we can do right now is get him to the hospital.”
"Okay. Okay. Yeah. Hollander, you hear that? You're getting scanned. You're — Rozanov, what — you keep — what did you — Hollander. Buddy. You're going to be okay. We're going to Montreal General. We're going to Montreal General. You're going to be — fuck. Fuck, Rozanov."
Ilya bent his head down. His forehead almost to Shane's. Shane's eyes on his. Shane's breath warmer than his fingers. Siren over them. Road under them.
Eyes open. Hand in his. Bruise too dark. Eyes open.
The ambulance leaned into a turn. Ilya held on with the hand that was not in Shane's. Hayden's hand white-knuckled on the bench. Hayden breathing through his mouth.
Eyes open.
Shane blinked.
Eyes open.
"Hollander," Hayden said, quieter now. "Just — stay awake. Yeah?"
Shane did not look at Hayden. Shane was looking at Ilya. Shane's fingers warmer in his. Shane's fingers loosened slightly, then closed again.
"Hollander."
Shane did not look at him.
The ambulance slowed, then stopped. The doors opened to a different kind of light — the white floodlight of the emergency bay, the smell of antiseptic already there before the doors were fully open, the cold from outside coming in with it.
Shane's hand was in Ilya's.
They wheeled the stretcher out. A nurse was on the bay — scrubs, iPad, fast. The paramedic was talking to her, handover, the numbers. The nurse nodded once, twice. The nurse and the paramedic took Shane towards a set of automatic doors. The doors hissed open.
“That’s as far as you boys go,” the nurse said. “Go sit; someone will be out when we know more.”
Shane's hand let go.
The doors hissed closed.
Ilya stood at the doors and watched them close.
His hand was empty.
-------
9:14 PM.
The waiting room was small. Family-only, the nurse had said when they came in through the side — family-only, you can wait through there — and pointed them through a door off the main ER corridor.
Twelve beige chairs against the four walls. A coffee pot on a cart in the corner, pot a third full, coffee gone dark at the bottom. A vending machine humming low and steady. A TV in the corner above the vending machine, muted, the third intermission of a different hockey game with the wrong logos on the boards. A water cooler. A box of tissues on a side table. A glass-paneled door set into the wall under a clock. The doors that led to Shane.
The clock above the doors that led to Shane had a white face. Black hour and minute hands. A red second hand that ticked. The sound filled the room.
9:14 PM.
He was in a chair against the right-hand wall. His gear was still on. The chest protector pressed his ribs with every breath. His skates were still on. His gloves were on the ice. His stick was on the ice. His helmet was on the ice.
The clock ticked.
The fluorescents flickered. Once, twice, settled.
Hayden was not sitting. Hayden was on the phone. Hayden had taken his helmet off and put it on a chair and was walking the length of the room with the phone pressed against his ear.
"Yuna. Yuna, it's Hayden —it's—yeah. Yeah. He's at Montreal General. They've taken him back. They — yeah, I don't know yet. They haven't said anything yet. You saw? Yeah. Yeah, I'm — I — yeah. Oh, fuck, the 417? You're on it already? Okay. Okay, drive — drive safe. Yeah. He's — yeah. Yeah, I'll — I'll call you when I know. Yeah. Okay. Bye."
Hayden hung up. Stood in the middle of the room. Looked at the floor. Looked at his phone. Did not look at Ilya. Tapped the screen of his phone. Tapped it again.
Hayden dialed.
"Babe. Hey. Yeah, no, I'm — I'm okay. I'm at Montreal General. Shane got hit. He — yeah, you saw? Yeah. They've taken him back. They haven't said anything yet. The nanny? Yeah, can you — yeah. Drive safe —the snow's bad—yeah. Yeah, babe. I — yeah. I'll explain when you get here. Yeah. I love you. Bye."
Hayden hung up. Looked at Ilya.
"Rozanov."
The clock ticked.
"Rozanov."
He looked at the clock.
"Rozanov. Look at me."
He looked at Hayden.
Hayden was standing in the middle of the room. Metros sweater. Skates still on. Hair flat from his helmet, sweat at the temples already going dry. Mouth open. Eyes searching the room.
"What the fuck."
He did not answer.
"What the fuck, man. What the fuck. You and Hollander. You and Hollander."
"Pike."
"What the fuck."
"Stop."
"What do you mean stop. You — stop? No. No. Fuck no. You and Hollander, Rozanov. Hollander. What the fuck. You and Hollander. How long has — what the fuck. What the fuck. You — you said — in the ambulance, you said —"
He looked at the clock.
"You said he was — Rozanov, look at me — you said —"
He did not look at Hayden.
9:18 PM.
"Fuck," Hayden said.
Hayden looked at the floor. Then the ceiling. Then the floor. Then walked to the chair opposite Ilya and sat down hard. The chair creaked. Elbows on knees. Hands clasped. Head down.
The clock ticked.
The vending machine was humming.
The PA in the hallway was saying something he did not register.
The clock ticked.
Sweat was drying on him under the gear. The cold from outside was still in his skin. The chest protector pressed his ribs with every breath. His skates were wet from ice melt, and his socks were wet inside them. His base layer was stuck to his lower back.
The clock ticked.
His hand was empty.
He looked at his hand. The palm where Shane's bare hand had been pressed against his bare hand was no longer warm. His fingers half-curled.
He closed his fingers. Opened them. Closed them again.
He looked at the clock.
9:42 PM.
Hayden was still in the chair across from him. Elbows on his knees. Hands clasped. Head not down anymore but not up either. Eyes on the floor between his skates.
"How long."
He looked at the clock.
The clock ticked.
"Rozanov."
The clock ticked. The red second hand made another small jump.
"How long, Rozanov?"
A beat.
A longer beat.
Ilya did not want to give him this. Did not have anything for him tonight that was not in the room behind the doors below the clock. Hayden was not entitled to this. Hayden was not entitled to anything tonight. Hayden was a man Ilya had not particularly liked since 2010, and that had not changed in the last two hours.
But Hayden was here. Hayden had skated to Shane on the ice. Hayden had been the one with his face in Shane's, saying, "Look at me, buddy." Hayden was in the same chair as Ilya.
He looked at the clock.
The clock ticked.
The clock ticked.
The clock ticked.
"Since eighteen. Seven years."
Hayden made a noise. Looked at the floor. Looked up.
"Eighteen."
"Yes."
"You were eighteen, and you decided to fuck Hollander."
"Was both of us."
Hayden made another noise. Looked at the floor again. Did not say anything for a while. Pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.
"Seven years," he said, to the floor. "Seven years, Rozanov."
"Yes."
"Holy fucking shit."
The clock ticked.
"He didn't tell me," Hayden said, still to the floor.
Ilya did not answer.
"Seven years, and he didn't tell me. He's been — and he didn't —"
Ilya did not answer.
The clock ticked.
Hayden stayed there, head down, hands in his hair now. Then he made a noise and stood up and walked to the other side of the room and stood looking at the muted TV. The third intermission of the other game was still going. The graphics moved silently across the screen. Hayden's back to Ilya. Hayden's shoulders moving up and down with his breath.
The clock ticked.
Hayden put his hand against the wall beside the TV. Stood with his hand on the wall.
9:58 PM.
The waiting-room door opened. The shoulder of the man coming through caught on the frame. The door swung wider than he meant it to and shut harder behind him. His shoes squeaked on the linoleum even when he tried to walk softly.
Cliff Marleau. Road suit — navy jacket open, tie loosened, white shirt rumpled at the collar. Hair flat from the showers he had not had. Two gear bags in his hands, one over each shoulder.
Cliff set the bags down on the floor between the chairs. Crossed the small space. Sat next to Ilya on the right.
"Hey, man."
A hand on Ilya's shoulder. Warm. It stayed.
"I know, man."
Ilya looked at his face. Looked for the look — the one Cliff got when he had really good gossip. Eyebrow up, mouth open just a little, ready to launch into the story.
The look was not there.
Cliff was looking at him steadily. Cliff did not look away.
Cliff nodded at the second bag on the floor. "Pike's. Figured you'd want your shoes."
"Yes."
Hayden turned from the TV. Crossed the room. Grabbed his bag from the floor. Did not say anything to Cliff. Did not say anything to Ilya. Went out the waiting-room door and down the hallway toward the bathroom.
Cliff watched him go. Looked at Ilya. Did not say anything.
The clock ticked.
His legs were — he did not know what they were. The clock was still there. The doors under the clock were still there. He could not leave the clock. He could not leave the doors.
He bent forward. Untied a skate. The lace was wet. Pulled it through the eyelets, one eye at a time. Lifted his foot. Pulled the skate off. The skate was heavy. The blade scuffed from the ice tonight. The tongue darkened from sweat. Set it beside the chair. Untied the other. Pulled it off. Set it beside the first. Two skates side by side on the linoleum.
Skates first. Skates were always first. 20 years, skates first, and then the room went loud around him, somebody put music on, somebody came down the row with the bin for the tape. There was an order to it. He knew the order. He had never done the order anywhere but a room with hooks in the wall.
Feet in the wet socks. Black with thin yellow stripes at the top. Raiders-issued. The elastic at the top of them damp.
Somebody had taken Shane's skates off. Behind the doors. Hands he did not know. He did not know the name of the person who took Shane's skates off, and Shane's skates were somewhere in this building in a bag or a bin or on a floor, and Shane did not know where they were either.
Chest protector next. Pulled it off over his head. The padded cloth caught on his ear. Tugged it free. Set it on the floor at his feet. Shoulder pads after — he had to loosen the strap one-handed because Cliff was sitting on his other side and Cliff did not move. Cliff watched him work. Cliff handed him the end of the strap when he reached for it. Cliff said nothing.
Move, he thought. Nobody sat that close. Cliff sat there. Cliff kept sitting there, and it was less work to reach around him than to say it.
Shoulder pads off. They landed on the floor next to the chest protector with a soft thump. Shin guards — velcro at the back of the calf, velcro across the shin. Two pieces on each leg. Off. Onto the pile.
The hockey pants. He stood up.
The linoleum came through the wet socks, cold. He unbuckled the belt at the waist. Thumbed the laces at the fly loose. Pushed the pants down over his thighs. The thigh pads were stiff, and they caught at the knee, and he had to work them past, one leg, then the other. Stood in a hospital waiting room in his compression pants with his hockey pants in his hands. Black, to the ankle. He had them on since warmups. He had them on when Shane took the puck through the neutral zone, and he had them on when Shane went down.
He folded the hockey pants, which he never did, and set them on the pile.
There were two women in the chairs by the vending machine. They had looked up when he stood. They looked away again.
The gear bag was open on the floor. He crouched and put his hand in the side pocket, and there was a pair of sweatpants in there, folded, gray, his, and he had not packed them.
He pulled them on over the compression pants. Sat back down.
Arms bare. Arms shaking. The base layer wet through at the armpits, at the lower back, at the middle of the chest where the chest protector had pressed against him.
Cliff reached into his gear bag. The bag opened at his feet. Cliff pulled the hoodie out. The old one. The worn one. RAIDERS across the chest in a cracked screen print, the C-patch on the sleeve curling at one corner.
Cliff handed it to him.
He pulled it on. Pulled the hood up.
The hoodie smelled like home. Like the laundry detergent he used.
He sat in the hoodie with the hood up. Hands inside the cuffs. Feet, still in wet socks, with slides on.
In the side pocket of the gear bag was a pair of folded sweatpants he had not packed. A pair of dry socks he had not packed. A granola bar he had not packed. A bottle of water he had not packed. A phone charger he had not packed.
Cliff did not point at any of it.
The clock ticked.
10:09 PM.
He reached into the gear bag. His phone was in the small inner pocket. He had not had his phone with him on the ice; his phone had been in his gear bag in the visitors' room.
Ilya pulled the phone out. Dialed.
"Coach."
"Where are you, Rozanov?"
"Montreal General."
A pause. Not a question.
"Take what you need. I will handle the team. I will handle the league. I’ve got you."
"Okay."
The coach hung up first. Ilya sat with the phone in his hand. Set it down on the seat beside him. Then put it in the hoodie's front pocket. Felt it through the fabric against his belly.
There was nobody else to call. The person he called when something was wrong was behind the doors.
The clock ticked.
Hayden came back from the bathroom. Metros sweats now — black warm-up pants, gray Metros-logo hoodie. His hair was wet at the temples. He sat back down across the room. Did not look at Ilya. Did not look at Cliff. Looked at the floor between his now-sneakered feet.
The clock ticked.
10:18 PM.
Cliff stood. Picked up his coat from the back of his chair.
"Pike."
Hayden looked up.
Cliff crossed the small space. Hayden stood — automatic. Cliff pulled him in. Held him three seconds. Hayden's face pressed into the front of Cliff's open jacket. Cliff's hand on the back of Hayden's neck. Hayden's hands at his sides for the first second, then on Cliff's back for the second, then gripping at the back of his jacket for the third.
Cliff was taller than Hayden. Cliff's arm went across Hayden's shoulders.
Cliff let him go.
"Take care of him."
"Yeah."
Cliff crossed back to Ilya. Hand on the top of his head, brief, through the hood.
"I'll call you."
"Okay."
Cliff left. The door shut hard against the frame.
10:21 PM.
The clock ticked.
The vending machine hummed.
The fluorescents flickered.
The clock ticked.
10:24 PM.
The waiting-room door opened.
Jackie. Her coat half-closed over her belly — it would not close all the way. Snow on her shoulders, melting to dark wet patches on the wool. Her hair was up. Her face was flushed from the cold.
He saw her come in. The clock was still ticking. He looked at the clock. He looked at her. The clock was still ticking. He looked at the clock.
She scanned the room.
Hayden in the chair across from him, leaning forward, hands clasped, eyes coming up to her.
Him in the hoodie, hood up, watching the clock.
She crossed to the water cooler in the corner. Took a paper cup from the sleeve. Filled it. Took a second paper cup. Filled it. Came back across the room.
Handed one to Hayden in passing — touched his shoulder, leaned in, said, "Drink that, babe low," and walked past him. Sat down in the chair Cliff had been in. Careful of the belly. Hand at the small of her back as she lowered herself. She sighed once, low, as she sat and handed him a flimsy cup of water.
She undid the top button of her coat. Took her gloves off. Set them in her lap.
"Ilya. Hi. I'm Jackie. I'm sorry it's like this."
He looked at her. Looked at the cup in his hand. Looked at her.
Her eyes were green. She was looking at him directly. Her hand had landed on the arm of his chair, near his arm. Not touching.
"Drink the water."
He drank the water.
The paper cup was thin in his hand. The water was cold. He drank all of it. She did not say anything while he drank. She took the empty cup from his hand when he was done and set it on the floor by her chair.
She did not say anything else. Put one hand on her belly, low. Other hand on the arm of his chair. Not touching. Her wedding ring on her left hand catching the fluorescent light. Her breathing slow and even.
Her phone buzzed in her coat pocket. She took it out without looking, silenced it, put it back. Did not check who it was. Did not look at the screen. Did not move her hand off the arm of his chair.
Hayden watched her from across the room. His eyes were on his wife sitting next to Ilya, her hand on her belly. His mouth opened once, then closed.
The clock ticked.
10:38 PM.
The waiting-room door opened.
Yuna Hollander. David behind her.
She stopped in the middle of the room.
Her coat was black wool, mid-calf, snow on the shoulders. Her hair was pinned up. David was behind her in a dark coat, gloves still on, eyes already on the doors at the back of the room.
Yuna’s eyes met Hayden's with recognition. Moved to Jackie. Appreciation. Moved to Ilya. Caught there. Her eyes were doing math. Not stopping on his face — on the chair Jackie was in, on the gear in a pile at his feet, on the hood up over his head, on the hand Jackie had on the arm of his chair, on his hand in the cuff of his hoodie. Then, finally, on his face.
She crossed the room to him. David stayed near the door. David's eyes were on the clock and the doors beneath it.
She stopped in front of his chair.
He did not stand. His legs did not move.
Up close she was small. Up close she was not small at all. Black wool coat. Black pumps with snow drying on them. Her hands at her sides. Her eyes on his face.
"Why are you here."
"Mrs. Hollander —"
He did not have the next part. He did not have a sentence that was true and that he could say. He did not have a sentence that was true and that Shane had told him he could say.
"Why are you here, Ilya Rozanov?"
"I —"
"Why are you in —"
"I came because —"
He did not have the next part of that either.
"Ya prishel —"
I came. He had those words. He did not have what came after them in Russian either.
He shut his mouth.
"I —"
The doors below the clock opened.
A nurse stepped through, looking at her iPad. She did not look up.
"Is there an Ilya here?"
Yuna looked at the nurse. She looked back at him and studied his red-rimmed eyes.
"All three of us are coming."
The nurse glanced up.
She looked at Yuna. Looked at David in the back. Looked at Ilya in the chair, in the hoodie, in the hood. Looked at Yuna again.
"All three of you."
"Yes."
The nurse made a note on her iPad. "Okay. Follow me."
----
10:43 PM.
The nurse turned to walk back through the doors. Yuna followed. David followed.
Ilya stood up.
His legs worked.
He followed.
The corridor was fluorescent and long. The walls were a color that was neither quite green nor quite gray. The floor was linoleum, scuffed near the doorways. The ceiling tiles were marked at intervals by sprinkler heads. Somewhere down the corridor, an IV pump was beeping. Somewhere else, a phone was ringing. Someone in scrubs was pushing a covered tray on a small cart. The air smelled like antiseptic and floor polish.
Yuna ahead of him. David ahead of him. The nurse ahead of them all, looking at her iPad, walking fast and certain.
His shoes were loud on the linoleum. His feet were warm in the shoes that were not the skates. The hood was still up. His hand was in the front pocket of the hoodie around the phone. The phone was warm against his palm.
The Hollanders walked. Ahead of him.
He followed.