NICK
It was an hour later. I was in the corridor, my coat on, my keys heavy in my hand. I was heading toward the exit.
That was the plan. I told myself I was leaving because the surgery was a success, the patient was stable, and my professional obligations had been fulfilled.
Whatever was happening in the waiting room was not my department. It was not my problem. It was certainly not my concern.
Naturally, I took the longer route to the parking structure. The route that passed the waiting room. I told myself it was a matter of floor-plan efficiency..
I didn't question it. I could have, but that would have required acknowledging the small, persistent awareness sitting at the back of my mind, the one that hadn't quite let go of him since the operating room.
So I ignored it.
The waiting room was exactly as I expected: sterile, uncomfortable, and filled with the low hum of shared misery. Cyan was there.
