They had crossed the state line, found my car, and stood in my workplace parking garage as if they had never lost their grip on me.

I stood up and walked back to the entryway.

I stared at the brass deadbolt on my front door, the metal shining faintly in the dark.

The Friday morning lobby of St.

Anne’s Medical Center smelled of lavender disinfectant and damp wool when the automatic doors slid open.

I hung my trench coat on the wooden peg behind the receptionist counter and sat down to face the stack of blue patient folders.

Julie, the outpatient surgery supervisor, stood beside my desk with a blue plastic clipboard.