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person could only take so much. No, he blamed the wound in his mind. Not a single drop of his blood had ever spilled in combat, but he was broken all the same. Injured with scars. Haunted.
    All he could focus on was survival, and his needs were immediate and simple: Food. Shelter. Money. He had a plan to get those things.

 
    CHAPTER 6
    The BCH conference room was nearly full. By quarter to eight in the morning, all but Knox Singer, the gray-haired CEO of Community, had arrived for the meeting. Carrie was sandwiched between Julie Stafford, the head nurse for 4C, the neurosurgical floor where Leon Dixon had stayed before surgery, and Emily Forrester, legal counsel for White Memorial Hospital. As part of her official residency at White Memorial, Carrie rotated through various satellite hospitals, including BCH. Her operating room mistake had dragged the neurosurgical departments of two organizations into this legal morass.
    Sitting across from Carrie were Dr. Stanley Metcalf and Brandon Olyfson, the CEO of White Memorial. Olyfson was whippet-thin, with a long and narrow face, and hawkish eyes that made Carrie shrivel inside. There was coffee, of course, but the usual platters of donuts and pastries were absent, probably in deference to the gravity of the situation. No one was chatting; periodic, desultory sips of coffee were all that broke the silence.
    Olyfson and Dr. Metcalf exchanged a few quiet words. Carrie was deeply unsettled by the tension on their faces. Her actions had not only injured a patient, but she had damaged the credibility of her hospital and the man whose skill and poise she had worked so tirelessly to emulate. Her failure was egregious. Unconscionable. Soon she’d hear it dissected in all its grotesque detail by the higher-ups at BCH and White Memorial.
    Until a few hours ago, Carrie had been in the same scrubs she’d worn to Leon Dixon’s surgery. Now she had on her most professional-looking outfit: a dark suit jacket, slacks, and a blue blouse. Carrie had returned home to her empty Brookline apartment; fed her goldfish, Limbic, named after a primitive memory circuit in the brain; and passed out on the futon, getting a fitful couple hours of sleep. She awoke mired in self-loathing and disbelief, and the pang in her heart confirmed it had really happened.
    She did a reasonable job pulling herself together. After studying the spectral being she’d become in the bathroom mirror—her skin was moonlight pale, with dark circles ringing each eye, and her tousled hair stuck out in all directions—she’d swept her hair into a ponytail and figured they’d at least see she was suffering.
    At two minutes past eight, the door to the conference room swung open. In strode Knox Singer, accompanied by Carla Mason, head of legal for BCH. Singer was all alpha male, tall and broad-shouldered, with a finely coiffed mane of silver hair and the swarthy good looks of a guy who made his living doing Cialis commercials. Mason was pint-sized by comparison, but her severe bangs, ramrod-straight back, and sharply tailored business suit seemed to add a few inches of height.
    Emily Forrester grabbed a chair from against the wall and wheeled it over for Mason, while Singer took a seat at the head of the conference table.
    â€œSorry I’m late,” Knox said in a rumbling low voice. His tone suggested this was the worst possible way to start his day. “Let me begin by saying this meeting is privileged. No minutes. The reputation of Community has to trump the glaring negligence from any member of its staff. So, tell me, Stan, what happened in there?”
    Mason managed to get Knox Singer’s attention, and she gave him a look he understood.
    â€œWait,” Knox said, preempting Dr. Metcalf’s response. “Do you want counsel, Stan? You can have it. Just say the word.”
    Dr. Metcalf sat stone-faced and issued no response. None was necessary. Everyone knew what this meant: There