The siren above us changed to a high, rhythmic yelp as the vehicle swung left onto the hospital access road.
Ethan stood at the high formica counter of the emergency reception desk, his work shirt stained with sawdust and sweat.
A woman with gray hair searched the computer screen, her keyboard clicking in rapid, uneven bursts.
“The primary insurance card you provided is showing an inactive status for the current fiscal year,” she said.
Ethan reached into his back pocket and pulled out his leather wallet, laying three different plastic cards on the counter between them.
“She has been with the company for eight years,” Ethan said, his voice dropping into a low, flat register. “The policy has to be active.”
“I am checking the secondary network now,” the woman said, her eyes not leaving the blue screen.
The double doors leading to the treatment bay remained closed, their small wire-glass windows reflecting the bright fluorescent tubes of the corridor.
The red flashing lights of the ambulance outside pulsed through the glass entry doors, painting the waiting room chairs in rhythmic strokes of crimson.
