The makeshift medical office in what had once been the Grand Dame's sewing room buzzed with the quiet efficiency that seemed to follow Dr. Hathaway wherever she went. Medical equipment—some standard, some distinctly not—had been arranged with scientific precision across antique furniture never intended for such clinical purposes.
Mickey and Mal sat side by side on an examination table, identical expressions of wary resignation suggesting this wasn't their first rodeo with doctors poking and prodding. Three hours of actual sleep, proper food, and clean clothes had improved their appearance marginally, but couldn't erase the lingering shadows of exhaustion beneath their eyes or the too-sharp angles of adolescent faces that had gone hungry for too long.
Dr. Magda Hathaway moved with practic
