“Me," Colin said again, hand easy on the rail.
Steven's eyes narrowed. “Who are you."
“Elowen's doctor."
“Former," Steven snapped.
“Current," Colin replied, calm. “I evaluated her. She isn't ill."
Steven gave a short, humorless laugh. “You don't know her."
“I know the chart didn't survive a conversation," Colin said. “Let go of her."
“It's my hallway," Steven said. “My wife."
Elowen took her wrist back before either man could turn her arm into a rope. “Correction," she said. “I'm a person. With a lock that remembers how to say no."
Steven didn't look at Colin; he looked at her. “You think this—" he gestured at the damp walls, the bulb with a halo of dust—“is a life."
“It's mine," she said. “Which makes it better than anything with your name on it."
His jaw tightened. “You're jea
