By morning, Leo Reyes had become the most closely monitored appendix patient in the country.
Reporters gathered outside St. Raphael Medical Center before sunrise. At first there were only two vans and a photographer pretending not to aim his camera at the entrance. By eight, the pavement had filled with microphones, flashing cameras, and people speaking into phones as if national security depended on Leo Reyes’s digestive tract.
Maya saw them from the surgical ward window and regretted looking.
“Unbelievable,” Claire said beside her, holding a paper cup of coffee. “The man loses one useless organ and the entire country gathers for updates.”
“He didn’t lose it,” Maya said. “I removed it.”
“Fine. You removed the nation’s appendix.”
Maya closed the chart in her hand. “Don’t start.”
“To
