“Out with me} You mean …you weren't driving?” A rush of fresh fear overcame her as she understood him. They hadn't been out with him at all. But then who had they been with, and who was the driver?

“No, I wasn't.”

“Allyson said you were taking them to dinner at Luigi's, and a movie. It never occurred to me that you weren't …” And then, suddenly, as she thought about it, the pieces of the puzzle fit together for her too. The borrowed cashmere sweater, the white skirt, the fact that she scampered off to Chloe's, and didn't let Page drive her there. “How could I have been so stupid?”

“I guess we both were.” He stared at her through his tears, and she began to cry again. “You should have seen Chloe when she came in …she's got multiple compound fractures of both legs, a shattered hip, broken pelvis, internal injuries. They're removing her spleen now, and she may have damaged her liver. They have to replace the hip, put the pelvis together with pins …she may never walk again, Page …” His tears went unchecked. “And all she wanted was to get into that ballet school. Oh Christ …how did this happen?”

Page nodded, numbed by what she'd just heard. Chloe unable to walk again …and Allyson with a severe head injury. She looked at Trygve then, no longer able to blame him. “Did you see Allyson?” She was almost afraid to herself, and yet she wanted to desperately, but they had told her she had to wait until the neurosurgeons had finished their evaluation. But what if she died first, and Page wasn't there …what if …what if.

“No, I didn't,” Trygve said soberly, drying his tears for a moment. “I asked to, but they wouldn't let me. They just took Chloe to surgery. They think it'll take six to eight hours, maybe longer. It's going to be a long night.” Or not. That would be even worse, for Page. For Allyson, it could all be over very quickly.

“They told me Allyson had a severe head injury, but that was all they'd say,” he said softly.

“That's all they said to me too. I'm not even sure what that means. Is she brain damaged? Will she die? Could she be all right again?” Tears filled Page's eyes as she talked in circles and he listened. “She's with the neurosurgeons now.”

“You just have to believe that she'll be all right. Right now that's all we have.”

“But what if she isn't?” Page was grateful to have someone to talk to, and at least he knew all the terrors that she was feeling, except that Chloe was alive, and no matter how badly battered, she seemed not to be in mortal danger.

“Try not to ask yourself too many questions,” he said. “I keep doing that about Chloe …what if she can't walk …what if she's paralyzed …will she ever be able to walk or dance or run … or have children? A few minutes ago, I found myself planning where to put ramps for her wheelchair. You have to force yourself to stop doing that. We just don't know yet. Live it minute by minute.” Page nodded, knowing what he meant. One minute, she found herself trying to figure out what she would tell Brad if Allyson died, the next she refused to believe it.

“Do you know who was driving?” Page asked somberly, remembering what the nurse had said, that he was dead. And she had assumed it was Trygve.

“Only his name. A boy called Phillip Chapman, he was seventeen. That's all I know. And Chloe was in no condition to answer questions.”

“I've heard of him. I think I've met his parents. How do you suppose they knew him?”

“God knows …school …one of their sports teams …the tennis club …they're growing up, you know. I never went through anything like this with the boys though. Not with Nick at any rate.” And, of course, Bjorn would have been different. “I guess girls are a little more enterprising, or at least ours are.” He tried to make her smile, but Page was beyond it. What if she never grew up? Never had a real date? Or a boyfriend? Or a husband? Or a baby? What if this was it? Fifteen brief years, and then over. Just the thought of it brought tears to her eyes again, and Trygve took her hand in his, and held it, when he saw her crying.

“Don't, Page … try not to panic.”

“How can I not? How can you say that?” She took her hand away and began to sob. “She may not even live. She may end up like the boy who was driving.” He nodded miserably, and she blew her nose in terror and despair, and then looked up at him again. “Were they drinking?” It was the first thing that came to mind when she thought of a seventeen-year-old driver and an accident like this one.

“I don't know,” he told her honestly. “The nurse told me that they're taking blood tests from all of them, to check the alcohol levels in their blood. I suppose they could have been,” he said dismally, as a reporter approached them. He had been watching them talk for a while, and Trygve had seen him ask the nurse at the desk some questions after he finished with the highway patrolman.

Page was still crying when the man in jeans and a plaid shirt walked up to them. He had on a plastic tag from the newsroom, running shoes, and he was carrying both a small cassette recorder and a notebook.

“Mrs. Clarke?” he asked very directly, and stood very close to her, watching her reactions.

“Yes?” She was so dazed she didn't realize who he was, and for an instant, she thought he might be a doctor. She looked up at him with a terrified air, as Trygve watched him with suspicion.

“How's Allyson doing?” he asked, sounding as though he knew her. He had gotten her name from the nurse.

“I don't know … I thought you would know …” But Trygve was shaking his head, and then she noticed the man's badge with his photograph, name, and network. “What do you want from me?” She looked confused and frightened by the intrusion.

“I just wanted to know how you are …how Allie is …did she know Phillip Chapman very well? What kind of kid was he? Was he a wild guy? Or do you think …” He pressed as hard as he could until Trygve cut him off abruptly.

“I don't think this is the time …” Trygve took a step closer to him, and the young reporter looked unaffected.

“Did you know that Senator Hutchinson's wife was the other driver? Not a scratch on her,” he said provocatively. “How does that make you feel, Mrs. Clarke? You must be pretty angry.” Page's eyes grew wide as she listened to him, unable to believe what she was hearing. What was this man trying to do to her? Make her crazy? What difference did it make who the other driver was? Was he nuts as well as insensitive? She looked up at Trygve helplessly, and saw that he was furious at the reporter's questions. “Do you think the young people in the car might have been drinking, Mrs. Clarke? Was Phillip Chapman her steady boyfriend?”

“What are you doing here?” She stood up, and stared him in the eye with a look of outrage. “My daughter may be dying, and it's none of your business how well she knew that boy, or who the other driver was, or how I feel about it.” She was sobbing so hard, she could hardly get the words out. “Leave us alone!” She sat down and dropped her face into her hands, as Trygve moved between her and the reporter.

“I want you to leave us alone now.” He was as immovable as a wall between Page and the young man from the newsroom. “Get out of here. You have no right to do this.” He growled at him, wanting to sound ominous, but like Page, his voice was shaking.

“I have every right. The public has a right to know about this kind of thing. What if they weren't drinking? What if the Senator's wife was?”

“What's the point of this?” Trygve said angrily. What were these people doing there? This had nothing to do with the public, or anyone caring about the truth, or their rights. It had to do with prying, and bad taste, and hurting people who were already deeply wounded.

“Did you ask for an alcohol check on the Senator's wife?” His eyes fought his way back to Page, and she stared dumbly up at both men. It was all too much for her at this point. All she could think about was Allie.

“I'm sure the police did everything they were supposed to, why are you doing this? Why are you making trouble here? Can't you understand what you're doing?” Page asked him miserably. He seemed to be refusing to leave them.

“I am seeking the truth. That's all. I hope your daughter will be okay,” he said without emotion, and then sauntered off to talk to someone else. He and his cameraman were in the waiting room for another hour, but they didn't bother Page again. But Trygve was still outraged by the man's attitude and his daring to pursue Page at a moment like this one. And he resented the inflammatory, sleazy style and implications that were designed to enrage them. It was utterly disgusting.

They were both shaken after the reporter walked away, and at first they didn't even notice a redheaded boy approach them half an hour later. Page had never seen him before, but he looked vaguely familiar to Trygve.

“Mr. Thorensen?” he asked nervously. He was very pale, and looked a little dazed, but he looked directly at Chloe's father as he stood before him.

“Yes?” Trygve looked at him without any warmth or recognition. It was the wrong night for people to come up and chat with him. All he wanted to do was wait for Chloe to come out of her surgery, and pray that her life wouldn't be ruined forever. “What is it?”

“I'm Jamie Applegate, sir. I was with Chloe in … in the accident …” His lip trembled as he said the words, and Trygve looked up at him in horror.

“Who are you?” He stood to meet him then, and the boy looked sick as he faced him. He had a mild concussion and had had a few stitches over the eyebrow, but other than that he was untouched by the horror that had changed the other three lives forever.

“I'm a friend of Chloe's, sir. I …we …took her out to dinner.”