I looked down the long, empty hallway where Patricia had walked off without looking back, and I slowly rubbed my aching incision.

By eight o’clock Saturday morning, the nurse had changed my surgical dressing twice.

Dr.

Vance walked into the small recovery room with a bright yellow chart folder under his arm.

He pulled the rolling tray closer to the bed and set the folder down beside a stack of clean gauze.

“Let’s take a look at those stitches, Claire,” he said.

Kevin stood by the window holding a paper cup of ice water.