clipped to the passenger side sun visor to close the garage door. He shifted into first and accelerated after the ambulance, catching up just as it reached Highway 78.
He waited behind the ambulance for a break in traffic, then turned out behind them, heading east on 78. The ambulance made it to the next intersection, then its lights came on, and the siren started wailing. Peter felt his heart lurch, but his hands on the steering wheel were steady as he gripped it carefully and followed until he finally caught a red light at Fountain Drive.
The ambulance raced east on 78, weaving around cars that were too slow, or their drivers too oblivious, to get out of the way. Peter swallowed hard. He made the turn onto Highway-124 behind the usual huge line of cars, 78 and 124 being two of the major thoroughfares in this part of Gwinnett, but almost immediately started darting in and out of traffic, working the GTO up to the head of the pack of cars each time they were bunched up by a traffic light.
When he rolled into the parking lot of the hospital twenty minutes later, he still looked calm, but inside he was numb. He couldn’t honestly say how he’d gotten here, his driving had seemed to have been almost entirely on automatic responses. Or the decisions he’d made while driving had been immediately discarded by his mind as irrelevant.
Either way, he didn’t care; he was here. That’s what mattered. He jabbed sharply at the button on the ticket machine at the entry to the emergency room parking lot, waited impatiently for the crossbar to rise without bothering to take the ticket the machine spat out, then slid the GTO into the first open space.
He didn’t bother locking it, merely thrust the door open, got out, and slammed it behind himself as he started running for the double doors. He didn’t care if he never saw the car again, just so long as his wife was okay. Peter slowed to a rapid walk as he passed inside, and made right for the first admitting window he saw. The woman seated behind it wearing medical scrubs was calling someone’s name, but Peter got there before whoever she’d called could respond.
“My name is Master Gunnery Sergeant Peter Gibson.” he said in his command voice, reaching into his pocket for his wallet. “My wife, Amy Gibson, was being brought here ahead of me. Where is she?” he said as he pulled out his military ID card, which he used to get onto the bases in state to access the exchange stores, and slapped it down on the counter in front of the woman.
He didn’t normally throw his military service in people’s faces, which a lot of his buddies did since these days it often got some preferential treatment, but right now he’d take any advantage that would get him closer to Amy and seeing her made well. Plus he was pretty damn sure they wouldn’t let just anyone walk in and claim to be a relation to a patient without proof. The military ID might take care of both issues.
The woman eyed him in surprised irritation, then her eyes flicked down to his card. A moment later she looked at him. “If you’ll wait a moment Sergeant, I’ll check for you.”
Peter didn’t bother to correct her as she made the common civilian mistake of shortening his rank, which was the same thing as demoting him multiple grades. It didn’t matter. What did matter was that she turned to her computer, and her fingers were typing Amy’s name. He waited, leaving the card in his hand on the counter, as she finished typing and looked at the screen. Then something flickered past her eyes, something embarrassed and sad, and she looked back to him.
“Sergeant, you need to wait a moment.”
“I need to see my wife.” Peter replied.
“I know. But I need to get someone to come talk with you first.” she said apologetically.
Peter said nothing, merely gave her the same look he’d given his Marines when they explained they had to go do something they already should
He waited behind the ambulance for a break in traffic, then turned out behind them, heading east on 78. The ambulance made it to the next intersection, then its lights came on, and the siren started wailing. Peter felt his heart lurch, but his hands on the steering wheel were steady as he gripped it carefully and followed until he finally caught a red light at Fountain Drive.
The ambulance raced east on 78, weaving around cars that were too slow, or their drivers too oblivious, to get out of the way. Peter swallowed hard. He made the turn onto Highway-124 behind the usual huge line of cars, 78 and 124 being two of the major thoroughfares in this part of Gwinnett, but almost immediately started darting in and out of traffic, working the GTO up to the head of the pack of cars each time they were bunched up by a traffic light.
When he rolled into the parking lot of the hospital twenty minutes later, he still looked calm, but inside he was numb. He couldn’t honestly say how he’d gotten here, his driving had seemed to have been almost entirely on automatic responses. Or the decisions he’d made while driving had been immediately discarded by his mind as irrelevant.
Either way, he didn’t care; he was here. That’s what mattered. He jabbed sharply at the button on the ticket machine at the entry to the emergency room parking lot, waited impatiently for the crossbar to rise without bothering to take the ticket the machine spat out, then slid the GTO into the first open space.
He didn’t bother locking it, merely thrust the door open, got out, and slammed it behind himself as he started running for the double doors. He didn’t care if he never saw the car again, just so long as his wife was okay. Peter slowed to a rapid walk as he passed inside, and made right for the first admitting window he saw. The woman seated behind it wearing medical scrubs was calling someone’s name, but Peter got there before whoever she’d called could respond.
“My name is Master Gunnery Sergeant Peter Gibson.” he said in his command voice, reaching into his pocket for his wallet. “My wife, Amy Gibson, was being brought here ahead of me. Where is she?” he said as he pulled out his military ID card, which he used to get onto the bases in state to access the exchange stores, and slapped it down on the counter in front of the woman.
He didn’t normally throw his military service in people’s faces, which a lot of his buddies did since these days it often got some preferential treatment, but right now he’d take any advantage that would get him closer to Amy and seeing her made well. Plus he was pretty damn sure they wouldn’t let just anyone walk in and claim to be a relation to a patient without proof. The military ID might take care of both issues.
The woman eyed him in surprised irritation, then her eyes flicked down to his card. A moment later she looked at him. “If you’ll wait a moment Sergeant, I’ll check for you.”
Peter didn’t bother to correct her as she made the common civilian mistake of shortening his rank, which was the same thing as demoting him multiple grades. It didn’t matter. What did matter was that she turned to her computer, and her fingers were typing Amy’s name. He waited, leaving the card in his hand on the counter, as she finished typing and looked at the screen. Then something flickered past her eyes, something embarrassed and sad, and she looked back to him.
“Sergeant, you need to wait a moment.”
“I need to see my wife.” Peter replied.
“I know. But I need to get someone to come talk with you first.” she said apologetically.
Peter said nothing, merely gave her the same look he’d given his Marines when they explained they had to go do something they already should
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