Chapter 23: Open Doors

On Thursday morning, Mara pulled the last strip of tape off the inside of the glass.

Then she opened the blinds all the way.

The sun came across Main Street and hit the floor of her waiting room.

Four men were sitting in it.

Wyatt held a clipboard he did not know how to use.

Dean had made himself the receptionist and was already telling the woman in heels about his favorite kind of coffee.

Boone sat on the floor with the widower's golden retriever puppy asleep across his boots.

Nash leaned in the corner with his stitches and his arms folded.

"You're scaring the clients," Mara said.

"I'm protecting them."

"From what?"

"Cats."

The woman in heels laughed.

Her mild husband had brought a box of pastries for the staff.

He set them on the desk and gave Mara a small, shy nod.

"I told my sister about you," the woman said. "About the vase, and what you said to me in that first fight."

"I was rude."

"You were right. I said it was priceless. It was a vase."

The widower stood in the doorway with his thermos and held the door for a girl with a rabbit.

"Doctor," he said gravely, "the line is out to the sidewalk."

Mara looked at the glass.

It was true.

People stood on the pavement in the sun, waiting for her.

They had cats in carriers and dogs on short leashes.

A teenager held a gerbil in a shoebox.

For two years she had hidden in a building made of glass.

Now the glass was full of faces, and every one of them was looking in.

She did not feel afraid.

Then the motorcycles came.

She heard them first, a low rumble moving up Main from the north end.

The whole line on the sidewalk turned its head.

Wyatt put the clipboard down.

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