Patel examined me and expressed pleased surprise at my progress, Jenny returned with a hospital phone. “Your doctor approved a short call,” she said, positioning the phone against my ear while holding it for me. “Do you remember the number?”
I did.
I’d memorized Harold Winter’s number decades ago when he’d first helped Richard and me draft our wills. My fingers couldn’t manage dialing yet, so Jenny input the number as I laboriously recited each digit. Harold answered on the third ring.
“Winter Legal Associates.”
“Harold,” I managed, my voice a rasp. “Victoria Sullivan.”
A pause. “Victoria.
My God. I heard you were unresponsive. Are you all right?”
“Medical episode,” I confirmed.
“Getting better. Need help. Emergency.”
“Of course.
Anything,” he replied immediately. His voice softened. “I’ve known you and Richard for thirty years.
Whatever you need.”
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