Page 94 of Lance

Lance

I’ve never been so scared in my entire life. It takes two hours to get from the hotel to the hospital and there’s absolutely nothing I can do to make it go faster. All I can do is sit in the back of the car, willing time to speedup.

No one seems to know much of anything except that there was a car accident. The lawyer can’t get through to the social worker at the hospital—the initial call to his office was taken by an intern, since it’s late on a Friday night. He thinks the social workers at the hospital might have switched shifts, so he’s heading there himself to figure out what in the hell is going on. He promises to call as soon as he knowsanything.

Willa isn’t answering herphone.

I try to comfort myself with the thought that she must be with him. That’s why she isn’t calling. If Simon is hurt there’s no way she’d leave hisside.

Please don’t let him behurt.

I feel sick to my stomach. If something happened tohim…

“Try to relax,” Dylan says. He’s sitting next to me in the backseat of the town car. He didn’t hesitate to follow me when Louis dropped the news, telling our manager to fuck off when Lou suggested he wait and head back with the others. I’m grateful for his presence, even if I can’t find much comfort in it. “He’s going to be fine. We would have heard something bynow.”

I think about how awful traffic can be in LA. It could take the lawyer ages to get there, and God knows where he was when he got thenews.

“You should call your mom,” Dylan suggests, his voice quiet. But I can’t do that. If I talk to my mom right now I’ll lose it. And I can’t lose it, not when Simon needsme.

“I wish Willa would call,” Imutter.

“She’s with Simon,” he assures me. “Probably talking aboutStar Warsor something to keep him occupied while they check himout.”

I hold onto that thought, of Willa and Simon talking about droids and lightsabers, laughing at one of their nerdy jokes I never get. It carries me until we finally get to thehospital.

I’m out the door before Dylan even has his seatbelt off. I run into the emergency room, my eyes searching for Willa or the lawyer, and skid into the intake desk. “My son,” I say hurriedly. “I think he was brought in about two and a half hoursago?”

“One moment, please,” the receptionist says, turning to his computer. “Name?”

“Simon,” I say, willing the man to hurry. “SimonCates.”

“Dad!”

I spin around and see Simon sitting in a chair against the windows. He’s holding a stack of picture books, an unfamiliar woman in a tan suit next to him. I have the wild thought that those books are way too childish for him and couldn’t someone have found him a chapter book? But then he’s pushing them aside and jumping up, running toward me. I’m across the room in a second, sweeping him up into myarms.

“Simon!”

His arms cling to my neck like a vise. “I was so scared,” he cries, his little body shaking withsobs.

“You’re okay,” I tell him, holding him as tight as I can without cutting off his breathing. “Everything is going to be fine now.” I try to pull back so I can look at him, make sure that he’s fine, but he won’t relax his grip. “I’m righthere.”

“Don’t leave,” he cries. “Please don’t leave,Dad.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Simon,” I assure him, my throat thick with unshed tears. “I promise. I’m righthere.”

“Mr. Foster?” The woman in the beige suit steps beside me, offering a sympathetic smile. “You have a real brave boythere.”

“I know,” I tell her and he squeezes me even tighter, his face buried in myneck.

“I’m Theresa Lee,” she says. “I’m a social worker here at the hospital. They asked me to come down and wait with Simon here since his nanny was beingtreated.”

It takes a minute for her words to pierce through the overwhelming relief. Hisnanny?

“She wouldn’t wake up,” Simon whispers, barely audible through his sobs. “I called her name and called hername.”

Willa.

“Where is she?” I ask the social worker, my insides turning toice.