The road into Mercy Ridge was the kind that made people slow down even when they weren’t in a hurry. Two lanes, no shoulder, heavy pines leaning inward like they wanted to keep the town to themselves. In the fall of 1971, Mercy Ridge, Virginia, still moved at the pace of church bells and shift changes. The hospital sat on a rise above the river, a square brick building with a small emergency entrance and a parking lot that always smelled faintly of gasoline and wet leaves. Most days, it was predictable—sprained ankles, influenza, coal-dust coughs, babies arriving at all...
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