There was a pause. Papers shuffled faintly. Then the nurse lowered her voice. “He keeps asking for you. Just come.”
My stomach knotted. “Who gave him my number?”
“We’re still trying to determine that. He was brought in after a traffic accident near Burnside. He’s conscious, but frightened. He has your full name, phone number, and address written on a card in his backpack.”
I gripped the edge of the counter. “Is he badly hurt?”
“Stable. Some bruises, a mild concussion, and a fractured wrist. But he won’t answer questions unless we call you.”
I should have refused. I should have told them to contact child services, the police—anyone else. But a child was asking for me by name from a hospital bed, and I couldn’t just ignore that.
Twenty minutes later, I walked into St. Agnes with damp hair, mismatched socks, and a heart pounding so hard I felt it in my throat. A nurse named Maribel met me at the desk.
“Thank you for coming,” she said. “He’s in room twelve. Before you go in, I need to ask—do you recognize the name Oliver Vance?”
