I knocked once on the half-open door.
"Come in," Bala said.
I stepped inside with Sherry close behind me. The office was warm, almost stuffy, the heavy oak desk anchoring the center like a dark island. Bala sat behind it with the composed stillness of a man who had been waiting—back straight, hands resting loosely on the wood.
Opposite him sat Doctor Reed in his wheelchair, thin frame hunched slightly forward, glasses perched on his nose. The voice from the corridor. And in one of the visitor chairs, legs elegantly crossed, fitted leggings and a tailored jacket, sat Mary Stam.
She didn't look up when we entered.
"Is she—?" Bala asked, his eyes tracking Sherry as we moved toward the empty seats.
"She's clean," I said, lowering myself into a chair, the leather creaking under my weight.
"Abram, you understand this is confidential," Bala said, voice even.
"It's okay, Bram." Sherry's fingers brushed my arm, light but steady. "He's right."
