“I know.”
“Did Patel have an emergency?”
“No.” Tessa set the cloth aside and finally met my gaze. Her eyes were an unyielding, storm-gray hazel. “Mrs. Bellini called the outpatient clinic at eight this morning. She informed them that physical therapy was causing you excessive emotional distress and that the family was transitioning you to palliative maintenance care only.”
The air inside the suite seemed to drop ten degrees. “Palliative care? That’s for terminal cases.”
“She told them you were fixated on an impossible recovery,” Tessa whispered. “She told them that continuing intensive therapy was feeding an unhealthy psychological delusion.”
The cold rage that flooded my chest was unlike anything I had felt on the harbor docks. It was icy, methodical, and vast.
“Why are you telling me this?” I asked. “If she finds out you contradicted her, she’ll have you off this registry before sundown.”
Tessa didn’t blink. She reached deep into the side pocket of her scrub pants and produced three folded sheets of heavy bond paper, creased from being hastily shoved away.
“Because I found this in the tray of the office copier upstairs while I was looking for your medical release,” she said, placing the document directly on my lap.
