She had crossed this bridge more times than she could count.
The first time: two years ago, before any of this, a woman with a case file and a request and the specific knowledge that she was going somewhere that might not want her. Both halves of the city visible and neither half hers yet.
Every crossing since: one more claim made. One more piece of the city understood as hers. One more proof that the bridge was exactly what it was — the thing between the halves, neither side better, neither side diminished by the other's existence.
Tonight: her coffee in her hand, his hand finding hers as they walked, the city on both sides doing what it always did. Neither of them talking. The bridge didn't need commentary. It never had.
She thought about the patient.
Thirty-one years old. Three day
