By the time I pulled into Mercy General’s parking lot at 6:31 a.m., dawn was just beginning to dilute the horizon into gray. The front entrance lights cast long reflections across wet pavement. I barely remember shutting off the engine. I only remember walking through the emergency department doors with my hospital ID clipped visibly to my coat and the kind of fury I have spent a professional lifetime learning to keep under surgical control. Emergency departments have their own atmosphere—too bright, too cold, too full of interrupted suffering. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and burnt coffee. A child was crying somewhere beyond triage. A television mounted in the corner ran a muted morning news program no one was watching. It took me less than a minute to find Ethan because a nurse standing by the desk looked at my face and knew instantly I was not there for directions.
“He’s in the curtain bay on the left, near the back,” she said quietly.