A figure scuttled towards the side door of the hospital, the very image of a proper Muslim girl; Maryam herself could hardly believe that for a brief moment that morning she had remembered she was something else entirely. The guard gave a brief look—head bowed, hair covered—and she slunk in; he hardly ever bothered her anyway. She stood aside for a doctor, then hurried down a fluorescent-lit corridor towards the delivery rooms. A hasty moment in a closet to don the smock and put on the white headscarf—the black one got pushed furiously into her bag—and she walked into her station with slow, deliberate steps, letting the door swing back and forth behind her.

"You're late." Nurse Henderson did not even look up from her screen; thin fingers passed across it as she reviewed some file.

"I'm not late." Maryam softened her tone. "I'm just not as early as usual."

"Mmmm hmmmmmm." At seventy, Nurse Henderson had heard everything, and worried over nothing. Doctors and children were all the same to her. "Had an interesting day at school?"

"Met an interesting boy, more like it." That was Nurse Pearson speaking. Her eye missed nothing. Between them, the two women ran the delivery rooms with an iron grip.

"Of course not." She ignored their chuckles.

"Well, it doesn't matter that you're late," said Henderson. "We've got a slow evening anyway." Maryam's mouth was about to voice a denial; she shut it firmly. They can't know about Ibrahim. "Not like in the emergency room. They've got a dozen injured from a collapse in Cambridge." The woman's eyes rose to hers for a moment, gauging her reaction.

"My father's working on a school up north,” said Mary. “And my brothers just left on an expedition to Lexington." They would not have been anywhere near Cambridge. Medford, Cambridge, Lexington. Once they had all been called Boston, though why so many towns should have the same name escaped her.

A shriek emerged from one of the doors in the ward—an undignified shriek, cursing men in general and one man in particular.

"Don't bother," said Henderson. Maryam had taken a step towards it. "Fatima and Kalila are already there." She always had problems pronouncing the newer names.

"Both of them?"

"Mmmmmm hmmmm. Breech delivery. They said they needed the practice."

"Is it just one delivery, then?"

"One in progress, two still waiting." The delivery ward had six doors, all opening up on the nurses' station, but only one was groaning.

"Pakistani?" They could afford surgery when things got difficult. Maryam had never seen an operation.

"Not that lucky, dear. Best make yourself useful in the meantime." Her hand gestured towards a laundry cart, filled to the brim with dirty linen and bandages. So that's why Fatima and Khalila made themselves busy. There was no point complaining to Nurse Henderson about it. Girls who were late got what they deserved. "When you're done with these, stop by the ER; Doctor Marcus said they need help with the cleanup."

###

The hospital clothes were sturdy and well-made—Maryam had sewn enough gowns like this herself—and would not come to harm if they were cleaned a little too vigorously. It's stupid to be angry. Volunteering at the hospital had been her idea, after all. Sometimes nothing happened. That couldn't be helped. Other times... the other times made up for it. She poured a bit more soap on a particularly difficult stain. The hospital did have washing machines, but they were only used when some Saudi dignitary was visiting. They also turned on the lights in the top two floors when that happened. Time in the ER made up for time wasted on washing. And Nurse Henderson had explicitly told her to go.

Getting an order made a difference, though it really shouldn’t. No one ever openly challenged her presence in the ER. The problem wasn’t being the only woman there, not at all—she had gotten used to that. But there were looks. The orderlies smiled mockingly. The older doctors had this look of pity on their faces. The younger ones—the ones with fuzzy beards and no mustaches—their expressions were harder to decipher. But she had an excuse today. Once she finished washing, she could go. There was plenty of time. She tipped a bit more soap into the sink… and stopped.

Slowly, deliberately, Maryam pulled the last towel out of the water and turned it over twice. It’s clean enough. It’s been clean for a while. She was stalling. That was the truth. Of late, she had caught herself doing that more and more often. She hung the towel up and rinsed her hands. Stiffening her spine as much as she dared, Maryam walked out the door.

###

Maryam’s spine was a good deal more supple by the time she got to the ER. There’s no sense in asking for trouble. The bustle of activity had died down by this time; most of the patients had already been seen to. She made her way past several beds, their occupants swathed to varying degrees in stiff white cloth. A male nurse wandered from bed to bed, stopping at each to review a chart; a couple of doctors chatted quietly at their station. Young ones, with full hair and full beards. She passed by them quickly. A few beds produced weak moans as she passed; Maryam kept her eyes firmly on the floor in front of her. There were anesthetics, of course, but only for surgery—unless you could pay for them yourself, and no one could. Broken limbs had to suffer in silence, except... well, she had seen patients in what had to be a drunken stupor. Plenty of doctors would turn a blind eye to that sort of thing, even the Muslim ones. But Maryam did not even know where the alcohol was kept. There was nothing worse than a patient you could not help.

The last bay turned out to be the right one.

"Doctor Marcus, I've come to collect the laundry."

He turned towards her voice, round spectacles over a bumpy nose, head bald except for a white fringe.

"Never mind that, Nurse. I need your assistance with a procedure." The bed held a young man, one leg a mass of bruises, one hand resting on a shelf attached to the side of the bed. He gave her a weary grin as she approached.

"Hold here. Press down to immobilize the forearm." Doctor Marcus raised his glasses to examine one of the fingers, encased in a splint. She moved to follow his instructions. "He's a strong fellow, he won't mind. You remember the bones of the hand?"

It took her a moment to understand that it was a question. "Carpal, metacarpal, proximate, intermediate, distal."

"Very good,” he said. “Now what have we got here? Simple fracture, intermediate phalanx, middle finger. But this splint's no good. Can you see why?" His scissors cut away the bindings with a delicate touch. "The break's on a diagonal." She had been too busy looking to try to answer. "The flesh pulls the finger back, and the bone slides along the break. We have to stretch the finger, or it'll heal crooked." He brought out a device she had never seen before—a splint with a spring clamp at one end, and some sort of worm gear. The clamp gripped the fingertip, while the other end was braced against the base of the finger.

"Are you ready, lad?" asked Marcus. Maryam could feel the patient’s nod through the skin of his arm.

"Look carefully, and you'll see the bones move. There's not much bruising." He turned a knob, and the bones moved. The man flinched under her but said nothing. Marcus brought the other hand for comparison and made a small adjustment. "There. Do you understand?" She nodded three times without stopping. "Now stabilize the finger on both of its neighbors. Pass the bandages under the bars of the splint."

She nodded again, taking the bandages from his steady hands. She had applied a few splints, usually with Doctor Marcus, but sometimes with Healy or Gray. Never with such a delicate injury, though. You had to wrap the cloth around the three fingers, with the broken one in the middle; the splint had enough clearance, but any slip could jar it out of alignment. Like passing a thread through a sewing machine. She had done that often enough. Marcus' steady breathing behind her told her she was doing well. He was always quick to correct a mistake.

"There." She wiped a stray hair from her forehead and tucked it back under her scarf.

Marcus bent over his paunch to look, raising his glasses again. "Very good. Not too tight." The patient—her patient—gave her another grin; this time she blushed. "Ideally, we would stabilize it with a few metal pins through the bone, but I'm afraid that's out of the question in this case. The clamp needs to be turned ninety degrees every two hours and taken off after twenty-four. That's usually enough. Any questions?" She shook her head. "The bones of the shoulder are the scapula and clavicle. Those of the arm are the humerus, radius, ulna." His finger traced them briefly as he spoke; he then turned back to his patient. "Thank you for your assistance, Nurse. The cart is in the usual place."

Maryam turned away, forcing herself to walk at a normal pace. No one had seen them. She was not really worried, of course. Not for herself, anyway. They might dismiss her, but so what? It was not as if she would become a doctor, anyway. They wouldn't get rid of Doctor Marcus, but she didn't want any trouble for the old man. Scapula, clavicle. He kept thinking she was a nurse, though she had explained more than once that she wasn't. It's not his fault he's getting old. Oddly enough, he never forgot the last thing he had taught her, and never forgot to test her. Humerus, radius, ulna. Her fingers traced the bones out on her flesh.

###

The ER cart was small and messy; blood took forever to get out. Not that it mattered; she had no time left to bother with it. Maryam rolled the cart as quietly as she could down the corridor to the delivery rooms. Few people took this route, and fewer would bother to notice her. The delivery rooms were mostly staffed by women; the ER was only men. She paused outside the door to listen but heard neither women moaning nor babies crying. She slipped into the closet to remove her smock—still clean—and replace the hospital headscarf with her own. She would still arrive on time, if she hurried. The unwashed cart would require some explaining. If only I could talk with Khalila first. It was time to go—but the door opened on its own accord.

"Sneaking away?" Nurse Pearson was a slender woman, but that tone of voice could block any doorway.

Maryam clamped down on the bubbling panic. She can't know about the meeting. All she had to do was say something sufficiently suspicious. She pulled her heart from her throat and forced out some words. "It's not what you think."

"So. It is a boy."

She can’t know.

Her hands gripped her skirts. "Please don't tell my father." Perfect.

"Is it Hakimi's son?"

A blush of red swept from her chin to her forehead, continuing down the back of her neck for all she knew. How does she...? How does she...?

Pearson nodded, satisfied. "He's a good fellow, you know. Just don't do anything stupid, all right?"

Maryam's mind drew a blank for a moment, then latched on to her meaning. "Of course not!"

The woman's face softened, and she turned to unlock the escape route. "Off you go then." She indicated the laundry cart. "I'll have Fatima wash these. It's all she's good for, anyway."

Mortified, Maryam ran, not stopping until the hospital was safely out of sight.