The rain was beating so hard against the windshield that Eleanor Whitmore could barely hear her husband telling her to get out.
At first, she thought the fever had distorted her words.
She was pressed against the passenger door, one arm wrapped around her stomach, wearing Garrett's oversized grey sweatshirt over a damp nightgown that rubbed against her legs.
The clock on the dashboard read 1:17 AM.
Outside, the Tennessee highway had become a long strip of black glass, interrupted only by the shadow of the pines, the silvery rain, and the lightning that gave the impression, for a cruel instant, that the whole world appeared as it was.
"Garrett," she whispered. "Please. The hospital is on the other side."
