Page 116 of Gold Rush

“Just as a precaution. Like I said, he’s fine. Talking and walking, the whole deal.”

“You saw him?”

“Well, no. I’m in Boston for the day, attending a conference. But I’m sure he would have mentioned being paralyzed.”

I have to unclench my jaw to say, “Why didn’t he call me?”

“He said you were busy. He’s super impressed by you, by the way. Brags about your job. I mean, he used to bitch about how you were always too focused on school, but he also—uh, anyway, I can’t spring him from medical prison. I doubt he’ll call his dad, and Kit’s basically impossible to reach at work. Our friend Leo actually works at New York General, but he’s not answering, so I figured I’d⁠—”

“He’s at New York General?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks for letting me know.” I hang up, then beckon Jackie over. “I have to go. My … boyfriend was in a car accident.”

“Oh my God. Is he okay?”

“I think so. But I need to find out for sure.”

“Of course. I’ll handle the rest of your meetings. And let Rachel know there was an emergency.”

“Thanks.”

“Of course,” Jackie repeats. “Go! And let me know if I can do anything.”

“I will. Thanks.” I rush toward the exit.

Twenty-four minutes later, I’m outside the main entrance of the hospital. The last time I was here was when Lili got into a car accident several years ago. I’m no less panicked now than I was then, despite Gideon’s assurances.

I don’t like hospitals. I doubt many people do, but I’m especially uncomfortable here. The white sterility is blinding, the swirling chaos of overlapping voices and overhead announcements and distant sirens far from the order I work best under. I enjoy the predictability of a courtroom, of order and rules. Everything is laid out in advance—the evidence and the witnesses. Which table you sit at and which side starts. There’s too much uncertainty here.

There’s also a long line in front of the reception desk.

I walk right past it, entering the emergency room.

“Ma’am! Ma’am!” A woman wearing blue scrubs hurries over, stethoscope and ponytail swinging. “This is a restricted area. You can’t be back here.”

“I’m looking for Flynn Parks.”

“Ma’am, there’s a protocol⁠—”

“Are you familiar with the Kensington Oncology wing?” I interrupt. “Because I’m Rory Kensington, and I need to know where Flynn Parks is. Now.”

She sighs. This is New York—she’s likely dealt with plenty of celebrities and socialites throwing their weight around to receive special treatment.

I’m taken aback by my sudden willingness to do the same. How desperate I am to leverage anything and everything, if it means seeing Flynn sooner.

“Elijah?” The woman beckons over another man in scrubs. “Can you find out where a patient named Flynn Parks is and show this woman the way?”

“Of course, Dr. Summers.”

“Thanks.” Dr. Summers continues toward the reception area I came from.

“Thank you,” I call after her before turning back to the man.

“Parks?” The man is scrolling on a tablet.

“Yes,” I confirm quickly.