“I know the type,” Miller said, sliding the paper into a black plastic binder under his keyboard. “We had a guy like that try to push past us last winter. Claimed he was the patient’s personal doctor.”
He tapped the corner of my mother’s photo with his pen. “This one is your mother?”
“Yes,” I said.
“We get this sometimes,” Miller said. “Don’t worry. They won’t get past the elevator bay.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Take care of your girl,” he said, turning back to his puzzle.
I walked out into the cold night, the steam rising from the street grates in white plumes. I stood on the corner for ten minutes, watching the yellow cabs pass, before I headed back inside to sleep on the vinyl chair next to Maya’s bed.
At nine o’clock the next morning, Julian’s conference room was freezing.
