Four pages gone from the middle, ragged at the wire, the stubs still caught in the coil.

A receipt slid out from between the back pages when I lifted the notebook.

Lily’s, the diner on Oakridge, two coffees and a slice of pie, dated the Tuesday before.

Nobody writes anything on the back of a receipt.

I checked the back anyway.

I put the pad inside my jacket, where its weight sat against my ribs.

I walked back through the automatic doors with the notebook against my chest.

At a quarter to twelve, the ICU had that padded quiet, all beeps and rubber soles and a cart squeaking somewhere down the hall.