“Ambulance is on its way. You’ll get out of here in no time. Then you can laugh about how you almost had a garden baby.” Jane focuses on my voice and her breathing. “You can call her Olive Garden Moretti.” She almost laughs, the noise caught in her throat. “Thatcher…hates that restaurant.” I know. “I don’t know what he’s got against it. Their breadsticks are dope.”
