I showed up at the hospital to surprise my husband during his shift. But the second one of his coworkers saw me, all the color left his face. Then his eyes filled with tears. “He hasn’t said a word to you, has he?” Ben and I had been married eleven years, and for every one of those years, I had shared him with the hospital. He was a remarkably gifted surgeon.
We had never switched the tracking off.
I opened the app with a shaky thumb and watched the little circle load over the map of Madison.
The glowing blue dot sat twelve miles north of downtown.
It wasn’t a hospital, a clinic, or an office park.
The small black letters under the icon said: Pinecrest Memorial Cemetery.
PART 3
I have no memory of fighting the highway traffic on the drive north toward the edge of the county.
All I could hear was the paper lunch bag rustling as it slid across the leather seat each time I turned.
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