Chapter 8: The Coat

The phone kept buzzing in my pocket while Piers Ward held out the tea.

"You can answer that," he said.

"It isn't important."

"Forty-three calls is somebody's opinion."

I stared at him.

He pushed his glasses up with one knuckle. "The screen is lit up on your hip, Miss Quillen. I can count."

I turned the phone off and put it in my bag.

The tea was hot and too sweet. It was the best thing I had ever tasted.

"Thank you for coming," I said. "You didn't have to."

"I did, actually. It's in the placement contract. Page nine." He took the handle of my suitcase. "I wrote the page."

"That's not a real clause."

"It is now."

I laughed, and my side pulled at the stitches.

I stopped.

He noticed. He noticed everything. His eyes went to the cane, then to the hand I had pressed against my ribs.

"Your file says you had surgery," he said. "Nine days ago."

"Eleven. I'm sorry. I should have told you before I came."

"You should not apologize. You should sit." He steered me toward a bench.

"The department has your discharge papers. The nurse wrote that you can't lift more than a kettle for six weeks."

"I'm fine."

"I'm sure." He set down my suitcase and crouched in front of me. "Miss Quillen, I'm going to give you a rule."

"A rule?"

"The only one I have. Nobody on my team lifts anything for six weeks if they're hurt."

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