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?”
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!”