My Mother Locked the Gate on Me

I called Mercy General’s blood bank supervisor.

I called a man named Dennis Hatch who owed me a favor from a winter storm drill and was still mad about it, which meant he answered on the second ring just to be difficult.

“Vale, this better be life or death.”

“It is.”

“Well, shit.”

By 11:42, the truck had left Mercer.

By 12:08, it was on Bridge Street.

By continue reading …