I want to tell you about a Tuesday.
Not a significant Tuesday — not a hearing Tuesday or a crisis Tuesday or a *someone-has-fractured-ribs* Tuesday. A regular one. The kind where the ward ran and the shift was long and Bettany managed everything with her usual competence and Pelton's pharmaceutical system continued to be quietly revolutionary.
The kind of Tuesday where I had been on my feet for nine hours and my hair had lost its argument with its pin sometime around hour six and I smelled of antiseptic and the very good third-floor vending machine coffee.
Zevran was at the Hold for two days.
The two-day limit.
I had been tracking it — not obsessively, not with anxiety, just the specific background awareness of the mate bond that knew the direction of him and the distance and whether
