Behind me, the station wagon door slammed shut.

“Rachel, hold on,” Ethan called out, jogging across the parking lot with the yellow diaper bag bouncing against his hip.

“I have her,” I said without slowing my pace.

The automatic double doors pulled open with a soft hum, letting us inside the warm, disinfectant-scented lobby.

The bright fluorescent overhead lights glared off the freshly mopped floor tiles.

I walked past two rows of empty vinyl chairs straight up to the thick glass window at the triage intake desk.

A female nurse wearing navy scrubs looked up from her computer workstation.