That said, I missed her call when I was on the way out of the office to have a misnamed Happy Hour with my co-workers.
The car broke at least four of his ribs, his clavicle, and lots more. They haven't really checked yet, because what we're all worried about is brain damage. He got admitted as a John Doe to Harborview, and now that we know he's there we're doing everything we can for him.
Happy Hour was at best all of us trying to keep a brave face on what's before us.
He has some response to verbal stimulation; he gave a thumbs up earlier after one of the nurses shouted at him to do it four or five times.
By the time I got home, I was exhausted from the long day in a long week. I'd committed to going to a show with some friends, and I got to forget everything for a bit. Dinner was excellent, and drinks were sufficient to lighten the mood.
Finally, I called her back. It was late, later than I'd intended. She answered on the fifth ring.
"It's me, sorry to call so late but I just got home. What's wrong?"
She'd been sleeping. "My husband's dead."
"Honey, I'm so sorry. Are you okay?"
Sleepy voice, "Can I call you tomorrow?"
Guilt tearing my heart, I answered "Anytime, okay? Call me."
It's been like that in my life now. All I can think of is the line from War and Remembrance: "I'm sorry love, but I'm going to write about nothing but death."
All I can do is retreat into nihilism.