The loud, metallic snap echoed in the small office, signaling the end of my daily routine at St.

Anne’s.

“Your access here is officially deactivated,” Helen said, sliding the ruined card into a bin.

“The Cincinnati clinic will issue your new security credentials when you report to their front desk tomorrow morning.”

I took the transfer papers and placed them in my shoulder bag.

“I appreciate you expediting this.”

“Take care of yourself, Mara,” she said.

At four o’clock, the wind was blowing dry sycamore leaves across the gravel lot behind the local police precinct.