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“We have to see Claire.” She snatches her bag from a chair but it flies out of her hand.
    Dad puts his arm around her, trying to slow things down, but she jerks away and cries, “Now! We have to go now!”
    “I'm coming too,” I say. They look at me, ready to say no, but how could they say no?
    I am swamped with a clammy sweat. My bathing suit's still wet under my clothes.
    “I have to pee,” I say. “I'll meet you out front.” I race to the stairs. Claire was hit by a car. No way. Claire was hit by a car. For real?
    Claire's wardrobe tornado is still all over the room. I peel off my swimsuit and toss it in the tub while I pee. I put on underwear, put my damp clothes back on. I'm wearing Claire's black thing. I'll wear it to the hospital, show her I've got it, confess. The horn beeps; I fly down the stairs. Dad said “very seriously injured.” What does that mean? What the
hell does
that mean?
They Make Us Wait
    When we say Claire's name to the reception nurse in Emergency, she says “Oh” and looks around in a panic, like she needs someone to help her. Or maybe I'm making that up because the place is freaking me out.
    “If you'll take a seat,” she says. “Someone will be right with you.”
    “We're not taking a seat,” says Dad. He's tall anyway, but he's making the nurse shrink.
    “I need to see my little girl,” says Mom.
    “It's the family,” says the nurse into a phone, like there's only one family, like everyone knows.
    “Is she still alive?” I ask.
    “Yes,” says the nurse. “She's inside, in the trauma bay. Someone will be out to speak with you shortly.”
    We stand there waiting. Maybe it's not so long, but it feels like forever. At least five minutes. Like holding a baking pan without an oven mitt for at least five minutes.
    There's a lady in one of the seats, clutching her wrist and whimpering. There's an old guy wearing an undershirt and wrinkled khakis. He's sitting on the coffee table instead of a chair, his hands fumbling around, not finding his knees to rest on.
    New game, I think. Guess the Emergency. But I don't see anything wrong with him, so maybe there's a wrinkly wife in her nightie somewhere behind that swinging door.
    I notice how I'm not breathing and then I breathe and I notice I can't hear anything except a buzz in my ears from brain cells colliding.
    My mother is pacing in circles like a maniac panther. Dad is this huge silent lump leaning against the wall next to me, with his shoulder half covering a sign: HAVE INSURANCE CARDS READY BEFORE SPEAKING TO RECEPTION.
The First Doctor of Many
    A doctor wearing green scrubs comes out. I recognize the scene from TV, only he's not handsome and he has a bristly neck.
    “Mr. and Mrs. Johnson?”
    They swish to attention, like startled puppets.
    “You are Claire's next of kin? Your daughter is not married?”
    “No, no, it's us,” they tell him.
    The doctor looks at me.
    “I'm her sister.”
    He looks nervous, with bloodshot eyes.
    “I'm Dr. David Cooper,” he says. “I'm a resident here at the hospital. What I have to say will be difficult to hear. Claire has been very badly hurt. We're monitoring the situation closely. She has had a severe head injury and is not responding to stimuli at this time. She may have some bleeding in her brain.”
    He pauses while Mom sags against Dad. “We're working at the moment to stabilize her vitals. We had to wait for Dr. Hazel—he's the neurosurgeon—to come back in, but he's here now and we're preparing her for surgery.”
    “Can we see her?” asks Mom.
    “In a few minutes,” says Dr. Cooper. He looks for refuge on the pages pinned to his clipboard. I'm guessing he hasn't done this too often, this talking-to-the-family-in-a-traumatic-crisis-hell situation.
    “I need to ask you a few questions. Does Claire have any health issues we should know about? Is she diabetic, for instance? Or does she have an allergy to any medications?”
    “No,” says Dad. “She's the healthiest