THE SIDE DOOR
Eleanor's driver was waiting at the entrance to the east wing.
Not a black car this time — a dark gray one, different vehicle, different man from the two who had brought me from Millhaven months ago. This one was older, broader, with the specific stillness of someone paid to wait without expression. He was leaning against the car when I came through the east wing door into the morning air, and he straightened when he saw me, and he looked at my bag, and he looked at my face, and he said nothing.
He opened the rear door.
I got in.
The drive to the clinic took twenty minutes.
I sat in the back with my bag on my lap, and my hand pressed flat against the inner pocket where the wristwatch was, and I watched Louisville move past the tinted windows. Streets I'd not seen before
