Patient declined.
My fingers tightened.
“He was in the emergency room.”
“Yes.”
“What time?”
Wade did not answer.
I found it myself.
Discharged 7:42 p.m.
Randall had come home less than an hour later.
I remembered him entering through the garage. He had stood with one hand against the kitchen counter while I talked about what I needed to bring to treatment the next morning.
I had assumed he was tired.
At some point I had gone upstairs.
When I came back down, the suitcase was open.
“He left the hospital to leave me.”
Wade’s voice was low. “Yes.”
“The doctor wanted him admitted.”
“Yes.”
“He refused.”
“He said he had something he had to do.”
I looked at him.
“You were there.”
Wade rubbed his thumb along the seam of his jeans. “I drove him.”
The page slipped from my hand.
“You drove him.”
“Yes.”
“To the emergency room.”
