The air in the parking lot of Riverside Hospital was thick with the smell of damp pine needles. I walked toward the emergency department entrance carrying a warm glass dish wrapped in a kitchen towel.
Liam was standing near the ambulance bay, his white coat unbuttoned, tapping a silver pen against his metal clipboard. He looked up as my shoes crunched on the gravel.
“You should be home, Nora,” he said, taking the container from my hands. “It is nearly seven.”
“I made the beef stew you like,” I said, rubbing the side of my right wrist where a dull ache had settled.
Liam captured my movement with a quick, clinical glance. He reached out and touched my sleeve.
“What happened to your arm?” he asked.
“I tripped over the garden hose yesterday,” I said, pulling my sleeve down. “It is nothing.”
Liam looked at me for three long seconds without blinking. “Ethan was at the clinic last week asking about medical liability coverage.”
“He is just managing the risk profiles for the winter projects,” I said.
