I nodded. I was a doctor long before I became an old man with too much fear in his hands. I understood the scans. I understood the risks. I understood that Emily’s body had become a chart, a record, a sequence of decisions.

But when they rolled her toward radiology and I saw her blue wristband slide against the sheet, I nearly came apart anyway.

In the hallway, the deputy’s radio crackled. He turned away from us, listened, then turned back.

“They found Daniel’s SUV.”

My throat closed. “Where?”

“Near the gas station on the receipt.”