I turned around to gather June’s heavy fleece blanket carefully around her shoulders.

Ethan sliding his phone into his coat pocket as the ER triage nurse calls June’s name.

I walked past the triage desk and found two open chairs in the second row of the waiting room.

An older man in a yellow windbreaker sat near the entrance, wheezing softly into a paper napkin.

The air smelled of sharp antiseptic cleaner and damp winter coats.

On the small laminate table between the vinyl seats sat three empty plastic water cups, left behind by whoever had waited here before us.