Page 92 of Mirror Image

“I’m so sorry, I don’t—”

“I was in the ER,” she says before I can finish. “That night . . .”

The memory snaps into focus at once:

Harsh fluorescent lights.

The sharp scent of antiseptic.

A much younger Shannon hugging a stack of charts to her chest.

Kellogg slamming the phone down so hard the receiver bounced.

The charts flew from her arms and skittered across the tile.

“Oh, brilliant! Just fucking brilliant!” he’d barked, coffee splashing across his sleeve. “Can nobody do their job tonight?”

I blink, the image dissolving.

Shannon gives a small, rueful smile. “Hard night to forget.”

She shifts her weight again, hesitating before continuing.

“I tried speaking up afterward,” she says quietly. “Thought maybe it would help. But he barely even looked up from whatever he was writing in his little notebook and just told me to drop it. So I did.”

She delivers it like a throwaway detail, already moving past it.

“I was young,” she adds. “Easy to scare. But you weren’t. You fought back. I think that meant something to her—to Mary. Or Sam.” A faint, apologetic smile. “Sorry. Still getting used to which name belongs where.”

Her pager chirps.

“VIP physician needs me,” she says, offering a small shrug. “I’ve got to run.”

She turns down the hall, and the moment ends as simply as it began. I reach out to touch the sleeve of her scrubs as she walks by. She looks down at me.

“Thank you, Shannon. For then. And for now.”

She gives me a brief nod and a sad smile before disappearing into the corridor.

The room becomes still in the silence she leaves behind—as if it’s holding its breath. The faint rustle that comes several seconds later feels amplified, out of proportion to its size.

Did I miss someone coming into the suite? I stand up and walk toward the source of the noise and nearly jump out of my skin when an older gentleman in green housekeeping scrubs emerges from the bathroom holding a bag full of trash. I’ve seen him before.

“Oh! Dr. Flores, it’s you,” he says, recognizing me.

“Hello . . . Forgive me, I can’t recall your name . . .”

“Jeffrey,” he supplies. His eyes flick to the takeout bag in my hand, and he brightens. “Cuba Libre café! Best burgers in the city, bar none.”

Despite everything, I smile. A tiny, welcome sliver of normal.

“That’s my family’s place. My cousin Stef owns it. You’re not wrong about the burgers. In fact . . .” I offer the bag. “I brought this for my patient, but it doesn’t seem like she’ll be needing it.”

His face beams. “Well now, isn’t it a small world! Thank you, Doctor—what a treat. Tell your cousin she’s got fans in me and my wife.”

“You’re welcome. And I will,” I promise.

A moment later, his expression shifts. He points toward the empty bed.