At twenty past eight I took the elevator up to the third-floor admitting desk, where the morning staff were setting out clipboard forms.

Paula Jenkins was standing behind the glass partition, holding a red three-ring folder against her chest as she read a computer printout.

“Rebecca,” Paula said, coming around through the side security door as soon as she saw me at the counter.

“I’ve been trying to reach your cell phone.”

“Is Grace in pain again?”

“Grace is fine.

She’s resting in her room,” Paula said, holding her clipboard against her chest.

“But your husband called the hospital billing department at eight o’clock sharp.”