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Ander

Allis bounces toward the nurses’ station where Ander’s slumped, winding down a long shift. Her face broadcasts her eagerness to spill as she leans over the counter; Ander just sighs.

“Okay, but you’re not allowed to say any names,” he says. “HIPAA.”

“He’s forty-two,” she whispers, “and she is not. She is like a factor of forty-two. One of them has a wedding ring. It’s caught on a piercing.”

“What kind of piercing, Allis?”

“VCH.”

He can’t help it–his eyes flick toward the computer screen, then back to her.

“Go ahead,” she says, grinning madly. “Google it, I dare you!”

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