I didn’t feel angry yet.
I knew the anger was coming — I could feel it the way you feel weather before it arrives.
But right then I only felt the weight of the letter, and the particular silence of a room where someone has just been told something they cannot unknow.
My phone was in my coat pocket.
Her full name was Diane Calloway.
She wasn’t hard to find.
A Facebook profile, mostly private.
A LinkedIn page that listed her as a dental hygienist at a practice twenty minutes from the hospital.
A neighborhood forum post from two years ago asking if anyone had recommendations for a reliable plumber.
An ordinary life.
A real person.
I sat in that small waiting room for another half hour, just looking at what little I could see of her profile.
One public photo: Diane at what looked like a birthday party, laughing at something off-camera.
