Richard drove past the exit for the county hospital without easing off.

At the Belle Meade gates, the iron bars were shut, and a young man in a green polo shirt stood beneath the stone arch holding a clipboard.

Richard lowered the window.

“Richard Caldwell.

They’re expecting me.”

The young man looked at his clipboard, then at the truck, then at the satellite case.

“Mrs.

Caldwell didn’t mention anyone coming.”