The hospital in Missoula is small.
Not bad small. Just the specific smallness of a place that exists to serve a community rather than impress one. No marble lobby. No art installations. Just clean hallways and capable people moving with the quiet efficiency of professionals who know what they're doing and don't need an audience for it.
We arrive at eleven forty-two PM.
Damien pulls up to the emergency entrance and I'm already opening my door before the car stops which he tells me later took five years off his life. The nurse who meets us at the door takes one look at me and makes a face that means we cut that closer than ideal.
"How far apart?" she asks.
"Two minutes," Damien says.
She moves faster.
