I sprinted down the hospital hallway, my breath coming in sharp bursts as I pressed my purse tightly to my chest. The call had come just fifteen minutes earlier—a shaking voice telling me my husband, Logan Pierce, had tumbled down the stairs at his office and suffered a serious head injury. I never stopped to wonder how the caller had my number. I just grabbed my keys and drove as if panic itself were pushing me forward.
As soon as I reached the operating wing, a tall nurse with cropped blonde hair stepped in front of me. Her face was tight with concern, wary, as though she were bracing for disaster. “Mrs. Pierce?” she murmured.
“Yes! Please—where is my husband? They said he was critical!”
