It went straight to voicemail without even ringing.

I typed a fast message instead: The emergency surgery was a success and the little girl survived.

I’m changing now and driving straight to the venue.

I changed out of my scrubs and into my gown in the front seat of my car, in the concrete dimness of the hospital parking garage.

I put on lipstick using the rearview mirror, my hands finally beginning to shake now that the adrenaline of the operation was draining away.

And then I drove across the city through heavy weekend traffic, as fast as I safely could, rehearsing the apology I would give, certain that the people who loved me would understand why I was late once I explained.