“Do you know who was driving?” Page asked somberly, remembering what the nurse had said, that he was dead. And she had assumed it was Trygve.

“Only his name. A boy called Phillip Chapman, he was seventeen. That's all I know. And Chloe was in no condition to answer questions.”

“I've heard of him. I think I've met his parents. How do you suppose they knew him?”

“God knows …school …one of their sports teams …the tennis club …they're growing up, you know. I never went through anything like this with the boys though. Not with Nick at any rate.” And, of course, Bjorn would have been different. “I guess girls are a little more enterprising, or at least ours are.” He tried to make her smile, but Page was beyond it. What if she never grew up? Never had a real date? Or a boyfriend? Or a husband? Or a baby? What if this was it? Fifteen brief years, and then over. Just the thought of it brought tears to her eyes again, and Trygve took her hand in his, and held it, when he saw her crying.

“Don't, Page … try not to panic.”

“How can I not? How can you say that?” She took her hand away and began to sob. “She may not even live. She may end up like the boy who was driving.” He nodded miserably, and she blew her nose in terror and despair, and then looked up at him again. “Were they drinking?” It was the first thing that came to mind when she thought of a seventeen-year-old driver and an accident like this one.

“I don't know,” he told her honestly. “The nurse told me that they're taking blood tests from all of them, to check the alcohol levels in their blood. I suppose they could have been,” he said dismally, as a reporter approached them. He had been watching them talk for a while, and Trygve had seen him ask the nurse at the desk some questions after he finished with the highway patrolman.

Page was still crying when the man in jeans and a plaid shirt walked up to them. He had on a plastic tag from the newsroom, running shoes, and he was carrying both a small cassette recorder and a notebook.

“Mrs. Clarke?” he asked very directly, and stood very close to her, watching her reactions.

“Yes?” She was so dazed she didn't realize who he was, and for an instant, she thought he might be a doctor. She looked up at him with a terrified air, as Trygve watched him with suspicion.

“How's Allyson doing?” he asked, sounding as though he knew her. He had gotten her name from the nurse.

“I don't know … I thought you would know …” But Trygve was shaking his head, and then she noticed the man's badge with his photograph, name, and network. “What do you want from me?” She looked confused and frightened by the intrusion.

“I just wanted to know how you are …how Allie is …did she know Phillip Chapman very well? What kind of kid was he? Was he a wild guy? Or do you think …” He pressed as hard as he could until Trygve cut him off abruptly.

“I don't think this is the time …” Trygve took a step closer to him, and the young reporter looked unaffected.

“Did you know that Senator Hutchinson's wife was the other driver? Not a scratch on her,” he said provocatively. “How does that make you feel, Mrs. Clarke? You must be pretty angry.” Page's eyes grew wide as she listened to him, unable to believe what she was hearing. What was this man trying to do to her? Make her crazy? What difference did it make who the other driver was? Was he nuts as well as insensitive? She looked up at Trygve helplessly, and saw that he was furious at the reporter's questions. “Do you think the young people in the car might have been drinking, Mrs. Clarke? Was Phillip Chapman her steady boyfriend?”

“What are you doing here?” She stood up, and stared him in the eye with a look of outrage. “My daughter may be dying, and it's none of your business how well she knew that boy, or who the other driver was, or how I feel about it.” She was sobbing so hard, she could hardly get the words out. “Leave us alone!” She sat down and dropped her face into her hands, as Trygve moved between her and the reporter.

“I want you to leave us alone now.” He was as immovable as a wall between Page and the young man from the newsroom. “Get out of here. You have no right to do this.” He growled at him, wanting to sound ominous, but like Page, his voice was shaking.

“I have every right. The public has a right to know about this kind of thing. What if they weren't drinking? What if the Senator's wife was?”

“What's the point of this?” Trygve said angrily. What were these people doing there? This had nothing to do with the public, or anyone caring about the truth, or their rights. It had to do with prying, and bad taste, and hurting people who were already deeply wounded.

“Did you ask for an alcohol check on the Senator's wife?” His eyes fought his way back to Page, and she stared dumbly up at both men. It was all too much for her at this point. All she could think about was Allie.

“I'm sure the police did everything they were supposed to, why are you doing this? Why are you making trouble here? Can't you understand what you're doing?” Page asked him miserably. He seemed to be refusing to leave them.

“I am seeking the truth. That's all. I hope your daughter will be okay,” he said without emotion, and then sauntered off to talk to someone else. He and his cameraman were in the waiting room for another hour, but they didn't bother Page again. But Trygve was still outraged by the man's attitude and his daring to pursue Page at a moment like this one. And he resented the inflammatory, sleazy style and implications that were designed to enrage them. It was utterly disgusting.

They were both shaken after the reporter walked away, and at first they didn't even notice a redheaded boy approach them half an hour later. Page had never seen him before, but he looked vaguely familiar to Trygve.

“Mr. Thorensen?” he asked nervously. He was very pale, and looked a little dazed, but he looked directly at Chloe's father as he stood before him.

“Yes?” Trygve looked at him without any warmth or recognition. It was the wrong night for people to come up and chat with him. All he wanted to do was wait for Chloe to come out of her surgery, and pray that her life wouldn't be ruined forever. “What is it?”

“I'm Jamie Applegate, sir. I was with Chloe in … in the accident …” His lip trembled as he said the words, and Trygve looked up at him in horror.

“Who are you?” He stood to meet him then, and the boy looked sick as he faced him. He had a mild concussion and had had a few stitches over the eyebrow, but other than that he was untouched by the horror that had changed the other three lives forever.

“I'm a friend of Chloe's, sir. I …we …took her out to dinner.”

“Were you drunk?” Trygve fired at him without mercy or hesitation, but Jamie shook his head. They had just done a blood test on him to prove that. And he had passed it very respectably, as had Phillip.

“No, sir. We weren't. We went to dinner, at Luigi's in Marin. I had one glass of wine, but I wasn't driving, and Phillip had less than that, maybe half a glass, if that, and then we went to have cappuccino on Union Street, and came home.”

“You're all under age, son.” Trygve said quietly, but he made his point. “None of you should have been drinking. Not even half a glass of wine.” Jamie knew he was right, as he went on to explain what had happened. “I know. You're right, sir. But no one was drunk. I just don't know what happened. I never saw it. We were in the backseat, talking …and the next thing I knew, I was here. I don't remember what happened, except that the highway patrol said someone hit us, or we hit them. I just don't know. But Phillip was a good driver … he made us all wear our seat belts and he was totally sober.” He started to cry as he said it. His friend was dead and he had lived through it.

“Do you think it was the other driver's fault?” Trygve asked him calmly. He was touched by what the boy had said, and Jamie was obviously very badly shaken.

“I don't know … I don't know anything, except that …Chloe and Allyson …and Phillip …” He began to sob, thinking of his friends, and without hesitation Trygve put his arms around him. “I'm so sorry …I'm so sorry …”

“So are we …it's all right, son …it's all right …you were a lucky boy tonight …that's fate …”It chooses one, it crushes a life, then darts away. It strikes like lightning.

“But it's not fair …why did I walk away from it, and they …”

“Sometimes it just happens like that. You have to be very grateful.” But all Jamie Applegate felt was guilt. He didn't want Phillip to be dead …or Chloe and Allyson to be so badly hurt …why did he only have a little bump on his head? Why couldn't it have been him behind the wheel instead of Phillip?

“Is someone taking you home?” Trygve asked him gently, unable to be angry at him, in the face of what had happened.

“My father'll be here in a minute. But I saw you sitting here, and I just wanted to say … to tell you …” He glanced from Trygve to Page, and started crying again.

“We know.” Page reached up and squeezed his hand, and he bent to hug her, and she found herself sobbing as she embraced him. His father finally came for him, and there was anger, and tears, and reproaches. Jamie's father, Bill Apple-gate, was understandably upset by what had happened, but also relieved that Jamie had survived it. He had cried when they told him Phillip Chapman had died, but he was also deeply grateful that his own child hadn't. He was a respected man in the community, and Trygve had met him a few times at school events and sports games.

He talked to Page and Trygve for a while, piecing together what had happened, and he apologized on behalf of Jamie for the deception. But they all knew it was too late for apologies, it was too late for anything, except surgery, and miracles, and prayers. They all knew that. And Bill Applegate said he'd be in close touch with them, to check on Allyson and Chloe. And before they left, he also asked Jamie if they'd been drunk, and Jamie continued to insist that they weren't, and for some reason, they all believed him.

Trygve looked at Page after the Applegates left, and shook his head. “I feel sorry for him …except a part of me is still so angry.” He was angry at everyone, Phillip for getting them into the accident, Chloe for lying to him, and the other driver, if it was her fault. But who knew what had really gone on? Who would ever know? The head highway patrolman had explained to him a short while before that the force of the collision had been so monumental that it was going to be next to impossible to determine who was at fault, and from the position of the cars, they couldn't tell for sure who had slipped over the line or why. The blood tests showed alcohol in Phillip's blood, but not enough to consider him drunk. And the Senator's wife had appeared to be sober, so they hadn't even bothered. They could only assume that Phillip had gotten distracted, maybe by Allyson, and perhaps the accident had been his fault after all. But nothing would ever be certain.

All Page could think of was the condition that Allyson was in, and how badly she wanted to see her. It was another hour before the nurse approached her again. The neurosurgeons were ready to see her.

“Can I see Allyson?”

“In a minute, Mrs. Clarke. The doctors would like to see you first, so they can explain her condition to you.” At least there was still something to explain, and as she stood up, Trygve looked at her with a worried expression. He was a good friend, they had met at a thousand school events, sports teams, and an occasional picnic, and although they had never been close friends, she had always liked him, and their daughters had always been bosom buddies, ever since the Clarkes had moved to Marin County.

“Do you want me to come in with you?” he asked, and she hesitated, and then nodded. She was terrified by what they were going to say, and even more so of seeing her daughter. She wanted to see her more than anything, but she was desperately afraid of what she would have to face when she saw her.

“Do you mind?” Page whispered apologetically as they hurried down the hall to where the neurosurgical team was waiting for them.

“Don't be silly,” Trygve said as they began to run. They looked like brother and sister as they hurried down the hall, both of them so blond and Scandinavian-looking. He was a pleasant man, with healthy good looks, and a gentle manner. It was easy to be with him. She had never felt as comfortable with anyone. They were partners in disaster.

The door to the conference room looked ominous as they pushed their way through, and there were three men in surgical gowns and caps waiting around an oval table. Their masks were down around their necks, and Page noticed with a shudder that one of them still had blood on his gown, and she prayed that it wasn't her daughter's.