I was methodically packing Nikki’s suitcase the next day when my cell phone rang on top of a pile of her favorite socks. I knew she would want these along with her favorite leopard print ballet slip ons. She hated the hospital and especially hated the “inmate socks” they provided patients until their belongings arrived, provided they were lucky enough to have someone who cared enough or had the means to bring them. I couldn’t fix my poor wife but the least I could do was bring fuzzy socks, I thought ruefully as I picked up my buzzing flashing phone.

“Jamison speaking,” I answered, putting the phone on speaker and tossing it onto the bed so I could continue packing.

“Is this Mr. Smith?” asked a deep and tired sounding male voice on the oth...

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