Page 16 of Wild

"On my way," Erin answers.

She sets her half-finished cup of coffee on the table and gets up to follow Yamila down the hallway. On the way, she pulls her hair back with a clip and makes sure her phone is in her pocket. It's Saturday afternoon and, surprisingly, the ER is pretty quiet for a weekend.

The patient in bay five is a man in his early sixties, athletic-looking, who fell off his bike in Central Park and walked to the ER holding his side like his ribs were about to fall out—according to Yamila—which is a bit of an exaggeration.

Erin goes in, introduces herself, runs through the routine questions, presses along his side with just enough force to avoid making things worse—even as the man winces and makes a show of it—and orders an X-ray.

"When can I ride again?" he asks, as if he's already forgotten the fall he just had.

"Let me see the X-ray first, okay?" she says.

The man nods and she steps out of the bay. She enters the order into the system and, when she looks up to find Yamila, she catches the white wall at the end of the hallway and suddenly she's back there—those wide blue eyes, slightly unfocused, staring up at her from the gurney in the medical room, full of terror. And right behind that image come those same eyes in the ambulance, more alert, a spark of mischief lighting them up, a crooked smile, Mia Wilder trying to flirt with her for reasonsErin still can't quite figure out. It's been happening all day; the moment her mind drifts, she finds herself thinking about the singer—or rather, replaying her, trying to reconcile those two versions of the same girl, wondering which one is real: the vulnerable one who'd looked at her with terrified eyes when she woke up, or the bold one who surfaced once her head cleared.

She refocuses on what she needs to do and slides her hands into the pockets of her dark green scrubs, waiting for Yamila to reappear and make sure someone wheels the patient down to X-ray.

Three hours later, she's discharged him with a couple of prescriptions for the pain and a follow-up appointment in a week. Erin is still in the ER, finishing up her notes, when Yamila appears in front of her again.

"Dooley, there's a woman asking for you at the front desk."

"For me?" Erin looks up, surprised, because she doesn't get visitors at the hospital—or at her apartment, for that matter, but that's a different story.

"She says she'll wait. Says it's important."

"Did she tell you who she is?" she asks, curious.

"She gave me her last name—Hadford. Not sure if that means anything to you."

Erin doesn't answer. It doesn't ring a bell.

"Oh, and she mentioned something about last night's concert."

Yamila heads off and Erin finishes the report, then makes her way to the front desk—more out of curiosity than anything else. When she walks into the lobby, one of the guys behind the counter raises a hand to signal her, and a woman in a pencil skirt, a fitted blazer, and four-inch stilettos turns around and smiles when she spots her.

Erin has no idea who she is. She's certain she never saw this woman anywhere at the event—not when they arrived, not whileshe was treating Mia Wilder, not afterward—but the woman smiles at her like they've met before.

"Erin Dooley?" she asks, with a polished smile that Erin suspects is more habit than warmth—something learned on the job.

"That's me."

The woman extends her hand.

"My name is Violette Hadford. I'm an attorney at Milhart Records, Mia Wilder's label." Erin shakes her hand, looking puzzled.

"Is Mia okay?" she asks before she can decide whether she wants to.

"Oh, yes. I'm sorry to show up like this, but I didn't want to handle this over the phone. Do you have a few minutes? I promise I'll be brief."

Erin looks at her, then glances at her watch—a black sports watch on her right wrist. For a moment, the watch reminds Violette of Nell, who wears the same style, along with leather bracelets like the ones the doctor has on her other wrist.

"Sure, follow me," Erin says.

She leads her to the hospital cafeteria so she can grab dinner while they talk.

"Do you mind if I eat while we do this?" she asks, already reaching for a bowl of salad and a yogurt.

"Not at all."

They sit down at one of the tables against the left wall and Erin peels back the lid on her salad to add the dressing.