Dan lowered his voice. “I’m not blaming you,” he said. “But… your face is tied to this now. People keep asking when you’ll be here again.”
“I’m not a mascot,” I said.
“I know,” he said. “I’m just… warning you.”
I pushed my cart through the doors.
Outside, the winter air slapped my cheeks, clean and cold.
I sat in my car and stared at the steering wheel until my hands stopped shaking.
I told myself to go home.
I told myself I’d already done enough.
I told myself I didn’t owe anybody anything.
And then I pulled the note out of my pocket and read it again.
“If you ever want to know what you actually changed…”
That sentence did something to me.
Because when you get old, you start to wonder what you changed.
Not what you built.
Not what you bought.
Not what you posted.
What you changed.
I drove to County General.
I hadn’t set foot in that hospital since my wife died.
The parking garage smelled like exhaust and wet concrete.
The elevator mirror showed a man I barely recognized—jaw set like stone, eyes too old for the skin they lived in.
I found the night desk.
A bored security guard looked up from his chair.
“I’m looking for a nurse,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow. “You got a name?”
“Maya,” I said.