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A nurse with silver hair and bright blue scrubs hurried outside.

"Dylan Lockhart!" she called. "What have you done now?"

"Not me this time, Martha."

"Well, that's a first."

He gestured toward my mother. "Miss Parsons passed out. We need someone to take a look at her."

Martha's expression immediately turned serious. The next thing I knew, another staff member appeared with a wheelchair. Dylan helped my mom into it, as questions were asked and I rattled off everything I knew. Which wasn't nearly enough.

How long was she unconscious? No clue.

What was she doing right before she collapsed? No idea.

Were there any warning signs? Your guess was as good as mine.

Did she hit her head or injure herself when she fell? I didn’t think so.

What was her medical history? What medications or supplements did she take? Did she have any known allergies?

I’d never asked her, and for the woman who planned everything, I felt like I’d failed the most important person in my world.

They took her straight through the doors. I started to follow, but Martha stopped me. "We're going to get her checked out, hon. Someone will come get you as soon as we can."

I nodded. Because apparently, that was all I was capable of doing. Dylan guided me toward the waiting area.

"She was awake and talking in the truck," he said gently. "That's good."

"Right."

"And she's in good hands."

"Right."

I sat down. Stood up. Sat down again.

Dylan watched me for a moment before asking, "Are we playing musical chairs?"

I looked at him. Was it something in their DNA that Lockhart men couldn’t take anything seriously?

"Sorry. Habit."

A man in scrubs holding x-rays walking past stopped. A wide smile spread on his face. "Lockhart! What're you in for this time?"

He held up his hand. "Not me, I’m just the driver."

The man laughed. "That's a relief."

He continued down the hall.

I looked at Dylan. "Someone’s famous."

"More like infamous." He leaned back in his chair. "Me and my brothers spent a lot of time here growing up. For a while there, they said they were going to give my mom her own parking space."

I’d always heard the tales of their misspent youth and Damon had mentioned a few close calls when we talked the night before, from jumping off roofs and other ill-advised adventures.

Dylan continued, "Broken arms. Broken legs. Dislocated shoulders. Concussions. Stitches."