She slowly gripped the cuff of her left sleeve. For 8 years, she had pulled that fabric down every morning like armor. Her fingers shook.”I never wanted to show this again,” she said, mostly to herself.
She rolled the sleeve to her elbow. On the inside of her forearm, in faded black ink, was a trident wrapped by a winged serpent staff, small letters curled beneath it, two words,”Harrow medical.” Someone in the crowd breathed out a curse.
A nurse covered her mouth. A young resident took a full step backward as if the mark had slapped him. The whole room stared at the ink the way people stare at a ghost.
Alcott’s voice cracked. Harrow Medical. I have not seen that mark in 8 years.
I was told nobody wore it anymore. One person does, Iris said. Atlas stopped growling.
It happened in an instant. His lips lowered, his shoulders sagged. He let out a long shaky sound, half wine and half sigh, and took one careful step forward.
