The hospital was a different kind of theatre, one Michael had never wanted a ticket for.
Michael was a mess. He was still in the same suit he'd worn for the past day, now soaked to the bone from the motorway rain and stained with mud from where he'd knelt on the curb.
He hadn't slept. He hadn't even been home. He just sat in the harsh, fluorescent-lit waiting room of the emergency department, his mind a blank, his phone a dead weight in his hand.
The "straight line" was a cruel joke. His perfect, controlled world was a smoking wreck in a ditch.
Every time the automatic doors whooshed open, his head would snap up, his heart lurching, expecting the worst.
Finally, after an eternity that lasted three hours, a doctor in blue scrubs, his face etched with exhaustion, walked out. "Family of Arthur Milton?"
Michael leaped to his feet, his chair scraping loudly on the linoleum.
"I am! I'm his boss! I'm Michael Sterling. Is he... is he okay?"
