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Rizzo calls to say she got my message about the doctor and not to worry about the chart I left unfinished.

“I told them you are allergic to the color of that room,” she says. “Also, I have ginger tea. Come steal it from me later.”

“I will,” I say. “Thank you for yesterday.”

“You bet,” she says. “And if a strange car tries to be your friend, you remember I am meaner than it.”

“I know,” I say. I want to say more.

I don’t.

She hangs up in the way that says she will text me a photo of a cat in a sweater if I sound shaky.

A bike messenger cuts too close.

I step back, bump someone’s shoulder, say sorry, keep moving.

My skin is buzzing in that way it does when I have slept too little and thought too much.

The SUV drops back and then edges forward.

It wants to teach me a rhythm.

I speed up and pick a new one.

By the time the hospital is in sight, the crowd has thinned into the morning lull between bus schedules.

This is the part of the day I like least.

The light is flat, the street is quiet, and everything feels like it is waiting.

At the curb by the service entrance, a white van half-blocks the alley.

There is a cartoon wrench on the side and a phone number in a font that looks like it lies.

The rear doors are open a crack.

Inside I see tool cases lined up too neatly.

The driver is on the phone, nodding at nothing, the way men nod when they want to look like they belong.

A second van idles at the hydrant with a city sticker peeling from the windshield.

I tell myself to look at the door, not the van.

Professional.

Normal.

Boring.

I call this the hospital face.

It keeps men with clipboards from giving me instructions I do not need.

“Morning,” a voice says, warm and casual.

The man who says it has a clipboard and a reflective vest and the kind of smile that sells memberships.