"The casualty report," she said. "The one he filed. Send it to me again. The flag version and the Coast Guard version both."
"You've got them. I sent them Saturday."
"I know. Send them again. I want them on top."
He tapped. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She did not take it out. She was looking up at the bridge wing, where Aled Llewellyn was standing very still, the way he used to stand when he was watching weather come up over the horizon, and she thought about the wristband.
The wristband had been on Hamish Ogilvy's left wrist when she walked into the trauma step-down unit at Rhode Island Hospital at a quarter past eight on Sunday morning, a white plastic band with his name and date of birth and his medical record number and a barcode, and beneath the barcode, in the small sans-serif type that hospital printers use, the date and time of his registration at the Newport Hospital emergency department, before they had transferred him by ambulance to Providence. She had sat in the chair by his bed for two hours while he slept, and his arm had been lying on the blanket with the wristband turned up toward the ceiling, and she had not meant to read it. She noticed everything. It was occasionally inconvenient.
10/09 23:38.
The master's casualty report, filed with the Maritime Authority of the Cayman Islands on Saturday morning and with the United States Coast Guard on form CG-2692, Report of Marine Casualty, because an injury to a crew member requiring professional medical treatment on a foreign vessel in United States waters had to be reported to the Coast Guard too, said that the incident had occurred at approximately 1945 hours.
Newport Hospital was a six-minute drive from the marina. Newport Fire had a station on Touro Street, four minutes away.
Nobody waited three hours and fifty minutes to call an ambulance for a boy with a broken pelvis.
Lorcan Kemble met her at the top of the passerelle, which meant he had been watching for her too.