Charles was looking at his phone wristband when I came through the automatic doors, and he said the word disconnect before he said hello.

My duffel bag strap cut into my shoulder after forty hours of travel.

I hadn’t taken off my uniform, and the collar felt too tight against my neck.

“They meet tomorrow morning,” he said. “Nine o’clock. They’re going to take Abigail off life support.”

The lobby floor had just been mopped. The disinfectant smell sat in the back of my throat.

Brenda stood by the elevator with her coat buttoned to the neck.

She turned a key ring over in her hand, once, twice, and clicked it.

The click made a small red light blink on the fob.

Somewhere in the parking garage, a car answered with a chirp. “Where is she?” I asked.

Charles pointed at the ceiling with his thumb. “Fourth floor. ICU. You can go up, but it won’t change the meeting.”

“How long has she been here?” I asked.