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“No,” I say.

Gabi does not move.

Walt lowers himself into the chair the woman in charcoal has left empty. He looks older than he did on Friday and it does not help him.

“When did you know my position would not survive the sale?”

“The final structure was confirmed last week.”

Last week I opened February appointments. I promised my daughter I would collect her on Thursday. I moved money into the HOUSE account and believed I was measuring our future.

“And before that?”

“I knew it was possible during negotiations.”

“How long?”

His eyes go toward the folder.

“Several months.”

“You had several months,” I say. “I have had eleven minutes.”

“I was bound by the agreement,” he says.

“You let me schedule patients you knew I might not be here to treat.”

“I hoped the group would keep the program.”

“You hoped. You also knew the risk. You kept that to yourself.”

He flinches.

I am not glad.

“Your work has never been in question,” he says. “You built this program.”

“Then make the reference specific.”

“I will.”

“Today.”

“Today.”

I stand with the folder against my chest.

Gabi stands with me.

Every patient has a name beside the next step.

Priya has the return-to-work threshold. Walt has signed the reference. The sponsorship packet is being copied at reception. The benefits office has produced a monthly number large enough to make the listing on my kitchen table look like evidence from somebody else’s life.

I go to Room 2 for my bag.

The room has already been reset. Fresh paper on the table, towels stacked, the blue dumbbell back on the lower shelf in the place where it lives.

The computer wakes when I touch the mouse, and his discharge record is still in the recent files.