“I have calls into the bank’s fraud unit,” Julian said. “Go back to the hospital. Let me dig.”
When I returned to Methodist Hospital, the hallway was quiet except for the squeak of a nurse’s rubber-soled shoes on the linoleum floor.
Maya was sitting up in bed, a plastic cup of apple juice on her tray. Her color was returning, the gray tint in her cheeks replaced by a faint, healthy pink.
The doctor had stopped by an hour earlier to confirm that the intensive antibiotic treatment had finally broken the postpartum infection. Her fever was gone, and for the first time in five days, her breathing was easy.
She kept her right hand pressed flat over her surgical incision as she adjusted her pillows.
“They said I can go home in two days,” Maya said, her voice soft but steady.
“Not to the apartment,” I said, pulling a chair close to her mattress. “Not until I know the locks are changed and the steam radiators are working properly. Julian is helping me look for a short-term rental.”
