Chapter 8: Level Three

We broke our first rule on Friday, and we broke it on purpose.

"One time," Daniel said on the phone. "Level three of the staff garage at six-thirty. After that, never again."

I told Mitchell I was going to my own hospital to pick up a paycheck.

I told Camilla the same thing, and she hugged me and said she was off to her evening shift.

Metro General's staff garage was seven floors of concrete and sodium lights.

I parked on the street and walked in through the pedestrian door with a visitor sticker on my coat.

Daniel was waiting by the stairwell on level three.

He looked at my hand first.

"It's healing," I said.

"I can see that."

He led me down a row of reserved spaces with names stenciled on the pillars.

Department chair. Vice chair. Chief resident.

The chief resident's space held a black Audi SUV, backed in with its nose to the wall.

I stopped.

The whole front left corner was crumpled.

The headlight was held in with silver tape.

There was a long scrape on the bumper, and in the scrape, bright as a stripe of nail polish, was a streak of silver paint.

My car had been silver.

"Take the picture," Daniel said, so quietly I barely heard him.

I held my phone up and shot it from six feet, from three feet, and from a hand's width away with the parking number visible.

My hands were steady.

I had not known they could be.

"Chief resident," I said.

"Yes."