By the time Maya reached the surgical floor, the hospital already knew.
Hospitals were worse than small towns in one specific way: the gossip traveled faster because everyone had access to elevators.
Maya changed into scrubs in the locker room, pinned her hair back, and checked her reflection long enough to confirm that she looked like a surgeon and not like a woman currently attached to a football scandal. The face looking back at her was calm. That was useful.
Claire was waiting outside the locker room with two coffees and the expression of someone who had been holding in a speech for hours.
Maya took one cup. “No.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You were breathing judgmentally.”
“I breathe with clinical concern.”
“You breathe like a tabloid with a medical degree.”
Claire followed
