7:13 P.M.

           He’shere.

           Ihavebeenhangingoutinanemptyhospitalroominthematernityward,wantingtobefarawayfrommyrelativesandevenfartherawayfromtheICUandthatnurse,ormorespecificallywhatthatnursesaidandwhatInowunderstand.Ineededtobesomewherewherepeoplewouldn’tbesad,wherethethoughtsconcernedlife,notdeath.SoIcamehere,thelandofscreamingbabies.Actually,thewailofthenewbornsiscomforting.Theyhavesomuchfightinthemalready.

           Butit’squietinthisroomnow.SoI’msittingonthewindowsill,staringoutatthenight.Acarscreechesintotheparkinggarage,shakingmeoutofmyreverie.Ipeerdownintimetocatchaglimpseofthetaillightsofapinkcardisappearintothedarkness.Sarah,whoisthegirlfriendofLiz,ShootingStar’sdrummer,hasapinkDodgeDart.Iholdmybreath,waitingforAdamtoappearoutofthetunnel.Andthenhe’shere,walkinguptheramp,hugginghisleatherjacketagainstthewinternight.Icanseethechainofhiswalletglintinginthefloodlights.Hestops,turnsaroundtotalktosomeonebehindhim.Iseethesoftfigureofawomanemergefromtheshadows.Atfirst,IthinkitmustbeLiz.ButthenIseethebraid.

           IwishIcouldhugher.TothankherforalwaysbeingonestepaheadofwhatIneed.

           OfcourseKimwouldgotoAdam,totellhiminpersonasopposedtobreakingthenewsoverthephone,andthentobringhimhere,tome.ItwasKimwhoknewthatAdamwasplayingashowinPortland.Kimwhomusthavesomehowmanagedtocajolehermotherintodrivingdowntown.