Within fifteen minutes, a security guard escorted her to her locker while staff members she had trained avoided looking at her, their silence revealing that rumors had already begun to circulate.
Her name had already been removed from the office door.
By the time she carried her belongings to the parking lot—stethoscope, a framed photo of her late husband, a pair of worn sneakers covered in cartoon stickers gifted by former patients—the reality of the situation finally settled in.
She sat in her aging sedan with the box on her lap and cried until her throat hurt.
When she finally checked her bank account, the number waiting there made the future feel dangerously uncertain.
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