“Mrs. Thompson was admitted six days ago following a severe auto accident,” the receptionist replied, her professional detachment a cruel counterpoint to the earthquake tearing through me.

Six days. My only child, my vibrant, brilliant Olivia, had been fighting for her life for six days while I was taking selfies at the Trevi Fountain, utterly, blissfully oblivious.

The elevator ride to the fourth floor was a silent, screaming eternity. My mind was a maelstrom of frantic questions. Why didn’t Blake call? I had left my international contact information with both of them, insisted on it. Had something happened to him, too?

The ICU doors hissed open. “I’m Rebecca Harrison,” I said to the nurse at the station, my voice a marvel of control I didn’t recognize as my own. “My daughter is Olivia Thompson. I just found out.”