St. Anne’s General was a small hospital tucked into the east side of the town, inconveniently far from where anyone actually lived, and a b***h to get to by road. They ended up following a speeding ambulance into the A&E entrance, which was a poorly signposted, inexplicably wheelchair-inaccessible tunnel that broke out from the main hospital buildings around the back, and thus was kept completely invisible from the main road.
“Go,” Dad said, swinging up into the marked bays in front. “I’ll park and join you. Go and find Simon.”
“Scott.”
“Whatever.”
Jayden took it at a run, his trainers squeaking on the tiled floor of the lobby, and thank God for Christmas pictures and Iranian grandparents, because Scott’s—Darren’s, just like Darren’s—wild hair stuck out in the busy, Friday-night-emerge
