“Thank you,” I said.

Rachel checked my pulse and noted the numbers on a paper chart at the foot of the bed.

She spoke with absolute medical authority, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Your blood pressure is ninety over sixty,” Rachel said.

“We need to get those numbers up before morning rounds.”

I looked past her shoulder into the hallway.

Through the large glass pane in the wooden door, I could see my parents pacing back and forth near the nurses’ station.

Richard held that same blue folder tight against his chest.