I didn’t see Jackson again for almost a week. But that didn’t mean he was gone. His name still haunted every patient file. His research paperwork showed up like ghostly footprints—LMA trials, patient data sheets, tick-boxes with “Dr. J. Ivory” printed neatly at the top. Some of the research assistants made their rounds in the operating rooms, checking protocols, updating forms. Occasionally, they’d say things like, “Dr. Ivory wanted to know if this airway gave any trouble.” And just like that, my stomach would drop.
But there was no Jackson.
Not in person. Not until Thursday morning.
I was waiting for the elevator, tapping my ID badge against the edge of my phone, when I heard that familiar voice behind me.
“Morning.”
I turned slightly. My eyes met his for the first time in days. “Mor
