“I want to give the ring to a museum.”

Mom is caught off guard. She sits on the edge of the bed and crosses her legs, the hem of her nightgown falling just past her knees.

“The ring?” she asks.

“Yes, the ring,” I confirm. “I don’t think it should be with me anymore. Maybe it never should have been with me.”

“I don’t know about that. But which museum?”

“The Kabul Museum,” I reply. “I’ve been reading about it, and UNESCO has brought back hundreds of pieces from around the world. Stuff that traded on the black market. I think it’s time for this ring to be returned.”

Mom purses her lips, concern etched into her face.

“How long have you been thinking about this?” she asks. What she means to ask is how long I’ve kept this thought to myself.

“Not long. I don’t even know how I would do it. Let’s talk about it more later,” I say, wanting to reassure her. “Though it’ll be after dinner. Today’s going to be a long one.”

Mom’s grown accustomed to my hours—workdays that start early and sometimes bleed into the next day. Mom’s friends are gathering tonight for the retirement party. As I leave, I can feel her questions following me. I think about telling her once more that I’m fine, but I know that the harder I try to convince her, the more unconvinced she’ll be. I really should be a better liar than I am.

I show up at the hospital and change into scrubs. I check out the board at the OR front desk to see if I’m in my regular room.

“Dr. Shephard. There’s a patient who needs to talk to you,” Inez, our charge nurse, says. Inez is one year away from retirement, and half the surgeons have vowed to retire with her. No one runs a tighter ship.

“I’m headed to pre-op now,” I say, grabbing a bouffant cap.

“Not in pre-op. Out by registration. He’s not a patient on today’s schedule,” she says. She rests a hand on her hip. “He’s refusing to talk to anyone but you. And so you know, I went ahead and called security to be around. I don’t want us to end up in the news.”

Shair is here.