She couldn’t stop. She’d been pushed around before. She’d touched a dick before. And this time she’d stuck up for herself and broke free before the man could do any real damage. But that she had to … that she had to fight to maintain her dignity and space. That the fight was against someone who was supposed to be not only her boss but also her mentor in a career devoted to helping others. That she had to fight against a fellow human being, one who had taken away her power to choose, or even move. Worst of all was that she had to fight but then she’d been forced to pull her punches, to struggle, but not enough to anger him, just in case he decided to hurt her career. Or hurt her physically.

Her altercation with the doctor had been short, but it was a violation. An exhausting reminder that women fight or they suffer. And sometimes they fight and suffer.

I’m not letting this happen. I’m not having sex for his signature. I will find a way to provide for Jose, but I’m not giving up my soul to do it.

She inched herself up the shower wall. I’m not letting it happen. No rape. She wasn’t going to get her nurse’s license. She would deal with it, standing up, straight and proud. But I’m also going to deal with Dr. Collins. How many women had he defiled over the years? Dozens? More? She didn’t have a plan, but she’d have some free time to come up with something, what with school over next week and no more clinic hours. Maybe I’ll start studying the law between bartending shifts …

Rage, her familiar friend, gave her a hand up, pushing desolation back into a corner. She rinsed the salt off her face, made sure the vomit was gone from her hair, and stepped out of the shower.

Toweling off, she realized she’d also have more time for Jose.

Starting now.

She dropped her pass on the charge nurse’s desk and trotted to the back doors. As she threw them open, a wind whistled past her. And then the alarm went off. It felt fitting, to disappear down the alley with an undulating horn to send her on her way. It harmonized with the screaming in her head.

Duke shed his practice jersey in the parking lot, striding across acres of gray pavement interrupted only by white lines to mark the empty spaces, and the occasional pothole or dirty Styrofoam cup. In a moment of giddiness, free of games and lies, he dropped the shirt on the hood of a maintenance man’s pickup, a well-used Datsun with ladders and dead tree limbs in the back. Get it on eBay quick, buddy, while it’s still worth something.