In the cafeteria, I sat with my friends, mechanically peeling apart my sandwich. The bread might as well have been cardboard, it was tasteless and difficult to swallow. But I forced myself to take small bites, to nod at the right moments, to maintain the illusion that this was just another ordinary lunch.
Chuck and Mark exchanged one of those loaded glances, the kind that meant they were weighing whether to push.
"You look rough," Mark said finally, his usual diplomatic approach abandoned. "Everything okay?"
I managed a noncommittal shrug, not trusting my voice to stay steady. "Long morning. Complicated surgery."
The half-truth sat heavy on my tongue, but it was simpler than admitting I'd spent hours working a mere feet from Jackson, watching those familiar hands work and hearing that
