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On Wednesday morning, six Thursday afternoons change hands.

Priya has taken two patients. Gabi has taken another. Three have been moved earlier in the week.

I stand at reception with my tablet open while Gabi washes citrus hand cream off her palms at the small sink.

“What did you do?”

“Scheduling.”

“You hate scheduling.”

“I hate people who book the last appointment of the day and arrive twenty minutes late. Scheduling is innocent.”

“Gabi.”

She dries her hands. “You’re at the annex Thursday mornings anyway. Now you can just go home after.”

Pickup.

The bus reaches our street forty minutes before I do on Thursdays.

My first thought is how many notes I could finish in three uninterrupted hours.

I dislike that thought on sight.

“You moved your own patients.”

“I moved patients who agreed to be moved.”

“Astrid.”

She says my name and waits. No lesson. No explanation.

She has learned not to rescue me from a yes.

I close the schedule. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Gabi goes back to her screen.

Six Thursdays. Six mornings in a building that smells of cold air and sharpened steel, with a tablet and a borrowed badge and a man who does every repetition I give him.

And six afternoons with my daughter, which is the only part of the arrangement I would have asked for.

I notice that I have begun to build a week around a hockey facility.

I notice that I have not examined it.

Thursday afternoon, Tova opens the passenger door and stops halfway in.

Her face is so unguarded that I almost look behind me to see what she is seeing.

“You’re here.”

“I am.”

“Now?”