At nine thirty the next morning, a hospital security officer led me into a small office behind the gift shop.

The room had a laminate table, four chairs, and a wall clock that clicked every time the second hand moved.

Charles was already seated with a manila folder in front of him.

Brenda stood by the door with her arms crossed, tapping one elbow with a finger.

“Sergeant,” the officer said.

“This petition came in from county court at eight fifty.”

He slid it across the table.