The hospital phoned to say a young boy had named me as his emergency contact. I gave a nervous laugh and replied, “That’s impossible. I’m 32, single, and I don’t have a son.” But when they said he wouldn’t stop asking for me, I got in my car… and the second I stepped into his room, everything in my world came to a halt…
The call came at 11:38 on a Tuesday night. I nearly ignored it—I was in my kitchen in Portland, Oregon, barefoot, worn out, trying to convince myself cereal qualified as dinner. Unknown numbers after ten usually meant spam or a coworker forgetting boundaries. Still, something made me pick up.
“Is this Ms. Nora Ellison?” a woman asked.
“Yes.”
“This is St. Agnes Medical Center. We have a boy here. Your name is listed as his emergency contact.”
I stared at the phone, then pressed it tighter to my ear. “I’m sorry, what?”
“A minor. Male. About eleven years old. His name is Oliver.”
“I don’t have a son,” I said slowly. “I’m thirty-two and single. You must have the wrong Nora Ellison.”
There was a pause. Papers shuffled faintly. Then the nurse lowered her voice. “He keeps asking for you. Just come.”
My stomach knotted. “Who gave him my number?”
“We’re still trying to determine that. He was brought in after a traffic accident near Burnside. He’s conscious, but frightened. He has your full name, phone number, and address written on a card in his backpack.”
I gripped the edge of the counter. “Is he badly hurt?”
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