She looked first at Juniper.
Then Colter.
Recognition moved across her face.
Her mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
Colter was the one who spoke.
“Ms. Harrington.”
Maren stared at the medical bandage inside his arm.
“You’re the donor.”
“Looks like it.”
Juniper looked up.
“You’re Callaway’s mommy?”
Maren turned toward her.
“Yes.”
Juniper immediately brightened.
“I’m Juniper. Callaway has Mr. Ellie.”
Maren looked between them.
The hallway.
The child with the elephant.
The man who had helped.
The donor.
Same people.
“You were there.”
Colter nodded.
“She had a rough day.”
Maren covered her mouth.
“The man in the hallway…”
“Dad,” Juniper said.
“You helped her.”
“There were nurses everywhere.”
“You stayed with her.”
“She was scared.”
Maren looked at him.
A man she had publicly reduced to a uniform.
A single dad exhausted from raising his child alone.
A former engineer she knew nothing about.
A man now sitting pale on a hospital bed because his blood happened to be something her daughter desperately needed.
“I…”
Nothing.
For once, information failed Maren.
Colter did not rescue her from the silence.
Eventually she whispered:
“Thank you.”
He nodded.
“How is Callaway?”
“They’re preparing the transfusion.”
“Then go.”
Maren looked at him.
“You should be with her.”
That almost undid her.
She left.
The transfusion helped stabilize Callaway.
Not instantly.
Not miraculously.
Slowly.
Her blood counts improved.
Her color returned.
The dangerous downward trend stopped.
The next morning, she asked for apple juice.
Then complained that the television remote did not work.
Her nurse told Maren that complaining was excellent news.
Callaway held Mr. Ellie beneath one arm.
“Where’s Juniper?”
“At home.”
“Can she come?”
“When you’re stronger.”
“Her dad came.”
“Yes.”
“He’s nice.”
Maren looked away.
“Yes.”
Callaway studied her mother.
“You look sad.”
“I’m tired.”
Callaway frowned.
“That’s what people say when they’re sad.”
Maren nearly laughed.
Children apparently ran the same software.
When Callaway moved out of intensive care, Maren returned to Harrington Industries.
The lobby looked unchanged.
That bothered her.
Same marble.
Same elevators.
Same security desk.
Maren stopped near the exact spot where Colter’s cart had been.
Malcolm looked up.
“Ms. Harrington?”
“How many people heard me speak to Mr. Whitaker that morning?”
Malcolm became uncomfortable.
“A lot.”
“Did anyone think I was right?”
He hesitated.
Maren appreciated the hesitation.
“I’m asking.”
“No.”
The answer stung.
“Why didn’t anybody say anything?”
Malcolm looked at her.
“You were the CEO.”
Maren nodded.
There it was.
Upstairs she summoned HR director Nadia Cole and her chief of staff Patricia Ames.
“I want Colter Whitaker’s employment history reviewed.”
Nadia immediately asked:
“For disciplinary purposes?”