PART 1 — The Two Unused Quarters

The paper-towel dispenser in the hospital restroom was jammed, so a nurse brought me a stack of brown towels from the hallway cart.

They tore when I rubbed my palms together.

Black grime from the wreck had settled into the creases of my skin.

I tried to remove it, but the damp paper crumbled against the porcelain sink.

My hands still smelled of burned rubber.

In the chapel, lemon polish could not quite cover the old carpet.

A stained-glass window depicting a blue pitcher cast a pale rectangle over the empty pews.

Sarah, the nurse, stood near the door with a small cup of water.

“Drink a little, Claire.”

I shook my head and rubbed my bare ring finger.

My wedding band was in a plastic bag inside my purse.

They had removed it while examining me after the collision, and I had not put it back on.

“The doctor will return in a few minutes,” Sarah said.

She offered a fresh damp towel.

I took it but did not use it.

“I need a telephone.”

She directed me toward a hospital courtesy phone near the elevators.