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I put one hand flat on the folder and do not lift it.
“Is my position in it?”
“The group uses a centralized performance program,” the woman in charcoal says. “Your position is being eliminated.”
I have not looked at her since she said her own name, and I do not look at her now.
“Walt.”
He has to meet it, and he does. “Your position is being eliminated.”
Not my work. My position.
“Effective when?”
“You are released from patient care immediately,” the legal man says. “Employment ends January thirty-first. You will be paid in full through that date.”
I open the folder. The date is not hidden in legal language. The rest of it is. Separation, benefit continuation, transition support, a page and a half of nouns where a life used to be.
Eleven minutes ago I unlocked a treatment room with my own key.
“Then there are four things I need from you before I leave this building.”
The legal man reaches for his pen.
“Not from you.” I keep my eyes where they are. “From him.”
Nobody at this table enjoys that, which is the first thing I have done on purpose since I sat down.
“One. The reference is written and signed today, by you, and it is specific. The referral growth. The return-to-play program. The physicians who ask for me by name. Do not write that I am dedicated. Write what I did.”
“I will.”
“Two. The filing date for the immigration notice, in writing, before I go, and a complete copy of every petition, approval, support letter, and employment record this clinic holds for me.”
“We can prepare a packet,” the legal man says.
“Three.” I am still looking at Walt. “The cost of continuing the insurance. Not in fourteen days. Today. My daughter has an appointment next week and the coverage ends on the thirty-first.”
Walt’s hand moves toward the folder and stops short of it.
“Four. Nobody in this building tells a patient of mine that I chose to leave.”
“We wouldn’t put it that way,” the woman in charcoal says.
“Then it will cost you nothing to put it in writing.”
Five days of insurance. I write the number on the inside cover and my handwriting comes out exactly as it always does, which is the only thing in this room still working the way it is supposed to.
On my way past Priya I put Tuesday’s note down in front of her.
“The threshold is in there. Do not use the earlier one.”
She nods. Her eyes are wet, and I cannot do anything about that from here.
When the others are dismissed, Gabi stays in her chair.
“Give us a minute,” Walt tells her.
