JACQUELINE
Blair and I arrived at the hospital, and I fought the urge to sneeze as the smell of antiseptic hit me.
Blair gave a small wave to the woman at the front desk, who waved back with a tired smile, then turned back to her screen.
“This way,” Blair said softly.
I followed her through the hallway. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, and the floor tiles squeaked faintly beneath our sneakers. I felt a weird sense of quiet calm there, which was strange considering the past twenty-four hours had felt like I’d been shoved inside a blender set on high.
We stopped in front of a room with partially drawn curtains. I could hear soft voices from inside.
Blair knocked gently and pushed the door open, and we both stepped in. The room was painted yellow with little cute flowers and birds drawn on the walls, as if to make the patient’s stay there more exciting.
Her sister was propped up on the hospital bed, talking to a woman who was sitting on a chair by her side.
That had to be Blair’s
