We reached the lobby.

A man in a dark suit was standing near the information desk.

He was holding a leather folder.

As soon as he saw me, he stepped forward, blocking our path to the clinical wings.

“Dr. Morgan?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

He opened the folder and pulled out a folded white paper.

“I’m a process server,” he said.

“You’ve been served.”

I took the envelope from his hand.

The paper was thick, white, and cold.

“Who is this from?” I asked.

The process server did not answer.

He turned on his heel and walked quickly toward the sliding glass doors of the lobby.

I watched him disappear into the gray afternoon drizzle outside.

Mara stepped closer to me, her shoulder brushing mine.

“Open it,” she said.

My fingers were stiff as I tore the top edge of the envelope.

I pulled out a stack of stapled documents bearing the seal of the county court.

The header read: *Petition for Emergency Injunction and Declaratory Relief*.

“It’s from Michael,” I said, my voice flat. “Representing Patricia.”

I scanned the first page, the legal jargon swimming before my eyes.