I took the stairs, two at a time, stuffing my gun into its holster as I tried to ignore the heavy strap digging into my shoulder. It was early, and I prayed as I approached her apartment.
“Please, be awake.”
Closing the door softly, I listened. Someone was in the kitchen. Relief washed over me as I peered around the doorjamb. Her small, frail frame bent over the sink. The house-dress hung on her like a worn rag, and white nurse shoes appeared ...