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watching Jory’s doctors and nurses struggle, when Claire was certain this was punishment for her missed diagnosis. What part of it all had kept her from going back to finish her residency? She didn’t know. She had let the course of life make her decision.
    She puts the résumés back in her case and snaps the lock shut. She should leave, she decides. It is a waste of everyone’s time to pretend she could take a job here; that she’s come for any grander purpose, if she drills her conscience, than to goad Addison, to prove that she will not stand by helpless. She looks around to orient herself, wanting to get to her car without going back through the emergency room. A woman with silver-streaked hair and a navy blue sweater buttoned tight over her white nurse’s dress walks out of the bathroom at the endof the hallway and fixes Claire in her focus, strides toward her with so much authority Claire wonders what rule she could have broken. The idea of explaining herself to this woman—to anyone—suddenly feels overwhelming. She opens her mouth to ask what the visiting hours are and the nurse halts in front of her. “They’re all at lunch.”
    “I’m sorry?” Claire says.
    “If you’re here to see any of the docs, they’re all in the cafeteria. Chief is out today.” She pauses just long enough to see Claire nod, then takes hold of her arm and marches across the lobby into a small, brightly lit cafeteria.
    At a long rectangular table six or seven people laugh and talk, breaking into each other’s words like they spend so much time together they don’t filter their conversation around manners anymore, dive straight in for the punch line. Every other table seems sober in contrast.
    The navy-sweatered nurse says, “Thursday’s burrito day. Nobody goes out. People from town drive over just for lunch on Thursdays. I’m Marti. I didn’t catch your name. How should I introduce you?”
    “Claire. Claire Boehning.”
    “Ms. Boehning, meet our staff docs. And a few interlopers. One good look and you’ll decide to stay healthy. Jim, they want to know if you need contrast on that CT. Can I get you a cup of coffee?” she asks, turning back to Claire.
    Thank God she had changed her clothes. There are five men and two women at the table, dressed in jeans, khakis, lined fleece shirts; not a white coat among them. Not… doctorly, she thinks. But the last time she had lived and worked in the world of medicine she had been in academics, where rank and role were clearly and constantly defined. They are all within ten or so years of her age, all but one—a tall, white-haired man well past retirement age. One of the youngest, a puff-cheeked fellow with a chin cleft, reaches out to shake her hand. “Have a seat. Don’t let these guys scare you. Z. Make room for her.” The elderly man scoots his chair and Claire slides into a seat at the end of the table. A plate of tortillas sits in the middle and she wonders if Jory has eaten.
    Marti brings her a cup of coffee and sits at the other end of the long table. “So you’re looking for a job.”
    Claire smiles, glad not to be the first to say it. “Do I look unemployed?” Her voice comes out higher than normal; she tries to relax her throat.
    “Nobody around here carries a briefcase unless they’re selling something, and we know all the reps. Are you a nurse?”
    “A doctor. We just moved here. My family.” She pauses a beat. “My daughter and I.”
    “How old is your daughter?” asks one of the women.
    “Jory’s fourteen. We moved out from Seattle last week. But we’ve owned property here for a few years, on Northridge Road—outside Hallum.”
    “Where on Northridge?” This from the man two down, a gaunt blond with bangs cut perfectly straight across his forehead as if he’d done them at home with sewing scissors, his voice melodic enough to mitigate his stern face.
    “About eight miles out. There’s an old homestead there, with an apple orchard.”
    “Oh,