I peeled it up myself an hour ago. The floor is sticky where the adhesive used to be, a ghost of the boundary I once thought was necessary for my survival.
"The Interim Chief stopped by while you were in rounds," Jax says, crunching a chip. "Dr. Evans? Nice guy. Sweat a lot. He looked terrified."
"Evans is a bureaucrat," I say, sitting down and adjusting my cuffs. "He knows he serves at the pleasure of the Board. And he knows the Board is currently terrified of my father."
Jax grins. "Yeah, he mentioned that. He said the Board officially approved the shared workspace and integration of our departments. He called it a 'Visionary Synergy Initiative.'"
Jax rolls his eyes.
"Which I think translates to: 'Please tell Alistair York not to fire us too.'"
I permit myself a small, satisfied smile. "Synergy is very important."
"Uh-huh. Also, things are getting weird out there, Max. A resident asked me to sign her stethoscope today. I told her it would void the warranty, but she looked ready to cry."
I pause, glancing at him. "Autographs? I suppose that is to be expected. You are 'Dr. Dreamy,' after all."
"Don't start," Jax warns. "It gets worse. I heard the cafeteria is officially naming a sandwich after me. The 'Trauma Turkey.'"
"Appetizing," Idrawl.
"Apparently, it’s messy, packed with questionable ingredients, and falls apart if you handle it wrong."
"Accurate," I muse.
"It isnot?—"
He cuts off as a sharp knock sounds on the door frame. We both turn to see Mama Ortiz standing there. She isn't holding a chart or a clipboard. She is holding a massive, foil-wrapped object that smells aggressively of spices.
She takes a large bite, chewing with deliberate satisfaction as she stares Jax down. Sauce drips perilously close to her uniform.
Jax’s eyes widen. "Mama, are you eating that? That is the sandwich they named after me. Eating it in front of me feels like identity theft."
"It’s delicious,mijo," Ortiz says, swallowing. "It tastes like jalapeños and bad decisions. Just like you."
Jax drops his head into his good hand. "I hate this place."
"You love us," Ortiz corrects him, stepping fully into the room. She places a napkin on his desk, right next to his corn chips. "Now sign my napkin, Dr. Dreamy. My granddaughter needs proof I know you."
Jax groans, his face flushing a shade of pink I find incredibly endearing, but he picks up a pen and scribbles his signature.
"Thank you, Mama," he mutters, handing it back.
"You’re welcome," she says, tucking the napkin into her pocket. She turns to me, her expression sobering just a fraction. "Happy New Year, Dr. York. Nice to see you back where you belong."
"Thank you, Mrs. Ortiz," I say, inclining my head.
She winks, takes another massive bite of the Trauma Turkey, and saunters out of theoffice.
Silence descends for a moment, smelling faintly of jalapeños.
"Funny," Jax says, recovering his composure. "I heard they’re naming a salad after you, by the way. The 'York Greens.' It costs fifteen dollars, has no dressing, and leaves you feeling cold inside."
"That is slander," I say, standing up to walk to the espresso machine. "My salad would feature a balsamic reduction. It would be complex."
"It would be high-maintenance," Jax corrects.
He points to a massive, cellophane-wrapped basket on the floor.
