Stories by Lindsey Allen

Her heart pounds in her throat. Beads of sweat race down the small of her back. Her eyes prickle with something she refuses to call tears.

She jogs down the brightly lit hallway, dodging families huddled together, nurses pushing carts and empty gurneys, towards the two men that stand near a window, shoulders slumped, clothing rumpled. Her eyelids are heavy and she can almost feel the bags under her eyes, but the voice of her lieutenant, the balding man that now stands fifteen yards from her, rings in her head.

You should get down to the hospital.

It’s serious.