“I understand you’re upset. Please, just give me a minute.”
She folded her arms and let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Oh, I’m sure you understand.
You probably enjoy making people wait. Makes you feel important for once.”
Her words cut sharper than she knew. I took a breath and clenched my fingers to keep them from shaking.
Then the man, whom I assumed was her husband, spoke without even lifting his head.
“Don’t be too hard on her,” he muttered.
“She’s probably just doing this until she finds a husband.”
My stomach turned. A few people across the room glanced over, then quickly looked away. One young resident from the pediatrics wing looked like she wanted to say something, but didn’t.
I stood there without moving, the sandwich limp in my hand.
I wanted to speak up, to defend myself and call out their nastiness, but all I could do was stand there and breathe.
A hush had fallen over the room. Every eye was watching, but no one spoke.
Then I saw him.
Across the cafeteria, near the coffee vending machine, Dr. Richard stood up.
He was in his early 40s, tall, always well-groomed, with steel-gray hair and a voice that carried. He wasn’t just the head doctor at the hospital; he was someone everyone respected. He was fair, firm, and never tolerated nonsense.
He began walking toward us, a slow, purposeful stride.
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