By midweek the Slack memes had burned out, replaced by the usual emergencies labeled “quick question.” Maya called it a moral victory and taped a tiny gold star to my monitor. I left it there because petty joy is fuel.
At 10:02 my screen flashed an invite: Coffee? 3:15, courtyard. —E.
No subject line, no emojis. Just the steady tone of someone who knows you’ll read it twice.
I stared at it until Angela whistled. “The prodigal lawyer returns.”
“He’s not prodigal,” I said.
“Semantics,” she said, stealing a grape from my cup. “You going?”
“Yes,” I said, and felt my stomach argue.
The day ran itself. Clinic at nine. One vendor tag rule saved three emails. Finance clapped in a way that might have been sarcasm. Elena sent a note that Northline’s CFO had stopped hovering. Sasha followed wi
