of truth arrives, however, he responds without hesitation. He spent the morning over at the morgue, trying to persuade somebody, any white coat that looked as if it possessed a shred of authority, not to cremate the girls before their parents regained consciousness. Then he headed over to UCLA in time to catch Clare just coming out of surgery. When he sees her on the gurney he feels something like reverse suction working on his viscera. Everything seems to be bucking upwards--and he's still willing it back down when Clare opens her eyes. He tries to focus on a bit of skin that isn't puffed black with trauma, then settles on her hair. Her eyelids flutter, she focuses miraculously--Clare always was fucking tough as an old nail--and asks how her girls are. He doesn't miss a beat: his voice is as steady and dry as always. "They're hanging in there," he says.
I could die