Mariana came charging through the sliding glass doors in her blue hospital scrubs, her black hair pinned back in a loose knot from her twelve-hour shift at the county clinic.

She didn’t stop at the front desk.

She spotted us standing by the stainless steel drinking fountain and dropped her heavy canvas tote bag on the floor.

“Where is she?” Mariana asked, her voice tight and low.

“Trauma Bay Two,” I said.

“They’re running IV fluids and using gel cooling pads.”

“Julian, what happened?” she said, grabbing my forearms.

“My mother was supposed to stay at the house until four o’clock.”