Chapter 2

The emergency room hallway was blindingly bright, Grace was rushed into the ER. Through the window, I saw her right leg—twisted and deformed, bone jutting out through the skin.

I stopped the attending physician. "I'm her daughter-in-law. I'll sign."

"No," the doctor said. "This surgery could mean amputation. It has to be signed by an next of kin. Daughter-in-law doesn't count. You need her son to sign."

I started calling Ethan.

The first call couldn't get through. The second, same. The third, still nothing.

I sent him messages, texted him, even called his hospital office—no answer.

The ER nurse, seeing me sweating and frantic, helped me check the medical symposium's schedule for the past three days.

"Nothing," she said, looking up from the computer. "There's no record of any medical symposium recently."

I froze for a moment. But there was no time to process it—Grace's blood pressure was dropping fast.

I made forty more calls. Every single one couldn't get through.

Two hours later, John Carter, the orthopedics on-call doctor, pulled me aside.

"Lina, let me be straight with you. Grace has a comminuted fracture and a severed artery in her right leg. The best window for surgery is within four hours of the injury. If Dr. Hayes were here, with his skills, there'd be a sixty percent chance to save her leg.

"But it's almost three hours now. If we wait any longer, the tissue will die, the nerve damage will be irreversible. At that point, it's not just about saving her leg—it's about saving her life."

"Then do the surgery," I said.

"Amputation requires a signature from a next of kin. You can't sign. And," John lowered his voice, "if we keep waiting for her son and it drags on until tomorrow, the whole leg will be lost. Worst case, she could get sepsis."

I stood in the hallway, phone in hand, the screen filled with missed calls to Ethan.

Fifty-one. Fifty-two. Couldn't get through. Couldn't get through.

At one in the morning, someone from the hospital's legal department showed up. They said they could start an emergency procedure—amputation surgery with multiple doctors signing off—but this was only for extreme cases where family couldn't be reached at all.

"Are you sure you can't reach him?" the legal department staff asked me.

I handed him my phone. Eighty-nine missed calls, all to the same number.

At 2:40 AM, the surgery began.

At 6:12 AM, the surgery ended.

Grace's right leg, below the knee, was gone.

I sat outside the operating room all night. My pants were stained with Grace's blood from when she was brought in. It had dried into dark brown crusty patches.

I didn't cry. I just kept thinking about one thing, over and over.

Where was Ethan?

Why wasn't his phone just off? Why was it "unreachable"?

Off and unreachable are two different things. Off means the phone isn't even on. Unreachable means the phone's on, but something's set up to block calls.

Like, maybe he blocked my number.

That afternoon, I went home, took a shower, changed into fresh clothes, and logged onto Ethan's computer in his study. I signed into his social media account.

He hadn't changed his password in three years.

As I scrolled through his following list, I noticed a name: [Sophia Bennett.]

I clicked on her profile. Her latest post was from two days ago—two VIP concert tickets, with the caption: [Been waiting three months for this concert. Finally here, with the most important person.]

Location: [Grand Metropolitan Theater.]

I kept scrolling. There was a selfie in a hotel bathroom mirror. She wore a white bathrobe, and just above her collarbone was a faint red mark. Location: [The Royal Crest Hotel.]

I printed out both screenshots and set them on the coffee table.

Then I went back to the hospital to continue taking care of Grace.

I waited for him to return.

Ethan got to the hospital at 10:30 PM.

I didn't go with him. I only learned what happened later, from Chloe's call.

He rushed into the inpatient wing, his shoelaces flapping loose. He pushed open the ICU door and saw his mom lying in bed—the right side of the blanket was flat, missing a section.

They said he collapsed to his knees right there by the bed.

Grace was woken up by the commotion. She opened her eyes, saw her son, and the first thing she said was, "Ethan, my leg is gone."

Ethan buried his face against the bed, his shoulders shaking violently.

Grace reached out and stroked his hair. "Why did you take so long? Mom waited for you for three days."

Ethan looked up, his eyes red. "Mom, I'm sorry. They wouldn't let us bring phones to the medical symposium. I had no idea."

"Where's Lina?" Grace suddenly asked. "Where's your wife?"

"She's at home," Ethan replied.

"She hasn't been to the hospital?" Grace asked.