Behind me, the station wagon door slammed shut.

“Rachel, wait,” Ethan called out, jogging across the parking lot with the yellow diaper bag bouncing against his hip.

“I’ve got her,” I said without slowing down.

The automatic double doors slid open with a soft hum, letting us into the warm, disinfectant-scented lobby.

The bright fluorescent lights overhead glared off the freshly mopped floor tiles.

I walked past two rows of empty vinyl chairs straight to the thick glass window at the triage intake desk.

A nurse in navy scrubs looked up from her computer.