Chapter 12: On the Record

By Friday Trina's video had eleven million views.

She'd beaten me with one crumpled pharmacy bag.

The comments under my gala clip had turned overnight.

DRUG DEALER DOCTOR. She poisoned him and then played hero. Check the bag, people.

Someone found my landlady's address and posted it.

Someone else posted a photo of Ciara walking into the diner.

Fergus spent an hour on the phone getting it taken down, his voice so quiet I was scared of it.

On Monday I started my fellowship again.

I walked onto the genetics floor in a clean white coat with my name stitched on it.

On Tuesday I had my first attending clinic in three years.

Eight patients were booked.

Six cancelled before nine a.m.

The clinic nurse read the messages to me off a sticky note, embarrassed.

"Uncomfortable with the news coverage. Would prefer another provider. Saw the video."

"It's okay," I said.

It wasn't.

I saw my two patients, and I was good with both of them.

Then I sat in the empty exam room and stared at the wall.

That night I sat in the back booth with my laptop and a ginger ale.

Fergus slid in across from me and put his chin in his hand.

"You can sue her," he said.

"That takes a year. You heard the lawyer. Everything takes a year."

"So what do you want to do?"

"I want to stop hiding," I said.

"Then stop."

The reporter from the Inquirer had left her card with the ER guard.

She had a podcast too, the kind people listen to while they drive.

I called her at ten at night.

She picked up on the first ring.

"I'll tell you everything," I said. "On the record. In my own voice. But I need one thing first."

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