“Miss P. jumped from behind her desk and rushed to greet me when I pushed through the office door. “We heard what happened.”Obviously feeling the emotion, the bird flapped his wings as he yelled, “Fucking bitch. Fucking bitch. Bad, bad girl. Smack you bad.”I would’ve smiled, except I wondered where exactly he had learned to say that . . . and what had happened to the “bad, bad girl.” The thought made me sad, angry, and afraid.Miss P. took both of my hands, one in each of hers, then stood back. “...Look at you.” She turned my hands over—bloody and torn, they weren’t pretty. “Oh, baby.”“Have you heard anything on Dr. Phelps’s condition?” I wandered back to my former office and looked in the closet. As luck would have it, some of my clothes I kept there for just this sort of thing were back from the cleaner’s. I pawed through them, trying to ignore the increasing pain in my hands—and trying not to get blood on any of the newly clean clothes.“I pulled rank with the hospital operator, told her I was you.”I snorted as I pulled an outfit out—jeans and a warm sweater.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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