I closed the door and turned the new brass key in the cylinder, listening to the solid, heavy slide of the bolt.

The sound was clean and final, vibrating slightly through the wood of the door into my palm.

At three in the afternoon, the lobby of the pediatric clinic on Vine Street was quiet, except for the hum of the small aquarium in the corner.

David, the clinic supervisor, laid three blue folders on the reception desk between us.

“We have forty-two intake files to transition before the morning shift,” David said.

“I can have the electronic records updated by five,” I said.