E L A R A
Someone just made me a fraud—at least on paper.
The clinic’s back office is a war zone. Papers sprawl across the desk, medical journals stacked like barricades, the old printer screeching as if it resents the overtime. A single lamp throws a hard circle of light, bleaching my credentials into stark black-and-white.
Asha is a storm beside me, hair falling from her bun, stapler snapping like a weapon. “Unlicensed? That’s the best they could come up with?” She slams another packet closed. “Marina must be choking on her champagne.”
I don’t answer. My throat’s too tight, my jaw clenched so hard it aches. The smear post’s headline still throbs in my skull: “Doctor Quinn Unlicensed? Seraphine’s Guests at Risk.”
All those years.
All those rotations. The overnight shifts that shred
