I stared at those numbers until the paper went cold in my hands.

That signature was dated the very week I’d been in the hospital with a fever.

On March 12 Patrick had driven me to Oakridge Memorial Hospital with a bad viral infection and a temperature of one hundred three degrees.

I’d spent four days straight in room 212, hooked up to an IV drip, barely strong enough to sit up or hold a glass of water.

Patrick had come by on the afternoon of March 14 to drop off a clean nightgown and a bottle of ginger ale.