"Fourteen days," he repeated. "Fair."
She stood. "One more thing. Do not tour my floor tomorrow with a donor and tell the story of how you learned a lesson. If you learned it, show it in policy and behavior. Stories about lessons have a way of centering the student."
A ghost of a wince crossed his face, then acceptance. "Yes."
She left him with the view of the garage and the nice table and the unfinished business of being a man who had been wrong in public.
---
Home was a second-floor apartment with plant light and a hallway full of Nia's shoes. Devon met her at the door in a faded college sweatshirt, kissed her temple, and took her bag as if bags could be forgiven on her behalf.
"You look like you performed surgery and diplomacy," Devon said.
"Both. Poorly timed." Amara toed off her shoes. "Where's the volcano?"
"Dormant. Nia's asleep on the couch with baking soda on her sleeve. I can reheat stew."
"Stew," Amara said, and the word felt like a small mercy.
They ate at the counter because the table was science. Devon listened while Amara told the lobby story without embroidery. When she finished, Devon was quiet for a long time.
"I want to key his car," Devon said finally. "I won't. But I want to."
"I know."
"Are you filing?"
"I'm holding it open." Amara tore a piece of bread, watched the steam rise from the stew. "I keep thinking about the nurse who called my name. She saved the moment and also exposed it. That's the job sometimes—make the truth audible. I don't want her to get sideways glances for 'making a scene' by doing her job."
Devon reached across and squeezed her wrist. "Whatever you choose, I'll bring snacks to the meetings. The good kind. Not hospital kind."