#Chapter 89 Woeful Work

Mira Cinda found me in the morning, curled up on a cot in a quiet back room at the hospital. “Wash your face, hon,” she directed me as I got up. She was kind enough not to mention that my face needed washing because it was clear I had been crying most of the night. The small sink in the corner gushed cold water at an alarming speed, but I welcomed the sharp relief as I splashed my swollen face. “Wanna talk about it?” My friend asked. I groaned. “Not really.” Cinda shrugged, leaning against the wall by the door. One of the clearest signs of a good friend is when they know not to pry, and can simply be present for you when you need support. She knew that when I was ready I would open up to her, and I loved her for it. “Does anyone else know where I spent the night?” “Not yet,” she replied. “If you get into your scrubs and look busy, they’ll just assume it was another early morning for you. We know you’re a workaholic.” I winced. It wasn’t a bad reputation, but didn