It was my mother.
She had driven nearly two hours after receiving the call from the clinic.
Her hair was pulled into the loose knot she wore when worried, and she still had a grocery store receipt clutched in one hand.
The moment she saw me, her face crumpled with relief.
“Oh, Rowan.”
“I’m okay.”
“I know what the doctor said.”
She set the receipt on the chair.
“That doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to be frightened.”
“I know.”
She sat beside the bed and reached for my hand.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Then she looked toward the open collar of my ruined uniform and saw the compression garment.
Her fingers tightened around mine.
“You told them?”
“They found out.”
She closed her eyes briefly.
“I wish you had told me you were going to do this.”
“You would have tried to stop me.”
“Yes.”
“Exactly.”
“That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have listened.”
I looked at her.
She gave a tired, unhappy smile.
“I’m learning.”
The door opened before I could answer.
Vega stood there holding a folder.
My mother’s attention moved to him immediately.
He straightened as if facing a superior officer.
