“Do you have his phone?”
She searched the old man’s bloodstained pocket and found it. The screen was cracked, but still usable. One number was saved as “My Son.”
She dialed.
It rang once, twice, then a voice answered.
“Yes, Dad?”
“This isn’t your dad,” Adana said quickly. “Please, your father was involved in an accident. He’s at Zenith Medical Hospital, Wuse Zone 6.”
“What? I’m coming now!” the man shouted.
Thirty minutes later, a sleek black SUV sped into the hospital.
A tall man in his late twenties, dressed in a white agbada and wearing a designer wristwatch, rushed in.
“Where is he? My father!” he shouted.
Adana stepped forward nervously.
“You’re his son?”
“Yes. Where is he? Are you the one who called?”
“Yes, sir. I brought him here.”
The man froze, staring at her in shock.
“You brought him… on that bike?”
Adana nodded.
He looked past her and rushed into the emergency room, where his father lay on the bed, struggling for survival.
