From where he stood in the alley between the Market Street Commissary and the cream station, he could easily watch the doctor’s office. It was Saturday night. You could tell even if you didn’t already know by the faint sounds of rowdy music from a couple streets over. You’d think the office would be closed on a Saturday night, but the light still shone in the window. An hour later, he was still watching. Although the shade at the window was pulled to the sill, he could see a flicker of shadow —the manifestation of the doctor, he was sure. He could tell it was her by the way she carried herself, like she was in charge of something important. Even in shadow, she appeared sure of herself. It was different to see a woman that way. Tuesday, when she’d treated him for his wounds, she’d looked him straight in the eye without as much as a blink, and her hands had been strong and steady when she worked. And whoa, Nellie, she was a looker with that dark hair and those gray eyes. What impressed him most, though, was that she didn’t ask his name —like she didn’t give a hoot if he was the governor or Jack Sprat.
