Gone Before Goodbye

by Reese Witherspoon

They say it takes seventeen muscles to smile and forty-three to frown. In Bonnie’s case, it’s clearly the opposite.

“Correction: I was a surgeon.”

Maggie can see the scene—that jukebox in the corner, the sawdust on the floor, the collection of neon beer signs, the heady smell of worn leather, diesel fuel, and testosterone.

it’s just that she hated to be in any situation where she wasn’t in control.

Now she relishes it. No talking. No music. No podcast. Nothing but the feel of the world being washed away by the wind.

All three

no dust,

“And yet,” Trace whispered back, “we’ll always long for this thrum in the blood.” That is what they don’t warn you about when it comes to combat. It’s terrifying, it’s awful, it’s the worst thing imaginable, you wish it on no one. But it’s also addictive. She can’t get the faces of the dead out of her mind.

To paraphrase Eminem, a normal life is boring.

no, not for, pardon the play on words, M&M.

Maybach

precocious child,

neat—Porkchop

It’s a massive mind melt that never seems to have a clear answer: Never be too provocative but never be too stuffy… Oh, but have a sense of style and always know what’s trending so you don’t appear, gasp, out of date—always trying to find the right balance between feminine and practical.

You’ve always been a risk-taker, Maggie. It’s what drew you to the military. It’s what drew you to provide care in some of the most dangerous countries on the planet. You were never one to color in the lines. Perhaps that led to your…”

Walter Reed.

the best view of Manhattan, you have to go to New Jersey.

replicas.

“oily”

Most people don’t realize how easy it is for the über rich to do that, to control their online existence, how often you will google someone superpowerful and what comes up through search engines is only what that superpowerful entity wants you to see.

“True crime,” he says. “Yes.”

Mona Lisa

mastermind

someone who desperately needed money, who would be discreet, who had the necessary skills, who would not worry about career repercussions—would be Maggie McCabe.

reputation.

It all feels very surreal.

Maggie off the hook as a physician and, well, a woman. There could be disturbing issues around this procedure involving consent, coercion, and power dynamics.

“No,” Maggie says, “I’m not married anymore. There is no one special in my life.”

Ginza

You’re just a plastic surgeon.”

“The problem is, you can’t go back. You can try. But human nature never lets you. Wherever you are, that becomes ground zero. Greed is not ‘I need more’—it’s the fear of losing what you already have. Of going back. So you hold on tighter and keep trying to climb up. Because that’s the only way you can go. Life won’t let you stand still. You are either on your way up or you’re on your way down. And you’ll do anything not to go down.”

There is no greater honor or responsibility than being a surgeon. For most of her career, Maggie dealt with soldiers and children with severe injuries and deformities. With her own two hands, she had the ability to mold, repair, restore them. Imagine that for a moment. Imagine what a privilege it is to do that kind of work, to make a living that way, to have people put that kind of trust in you and your abilities, to make them whole again.

Maggie swipes, hits the news app, which isn’t really a news app, and accesses the hidden folder.

The truth.” “I was in college. I was in New Orleans. I had too much to drink—” “The truth, Marc.” “That’s the truth. I was on spring break—” “I just did surgery on a patient,” Maggie interrupts.

There is no such thing as a consequence-free discovery. It is what man chooses to do with it.

Ferrari.

“There’s security everywhere.”

“His mistress. A woman named Nadia. She’s the one who specifically requested Maggie McCabe and only Maggie McCabe.”

Viking vibes—long blond hair and a beard to match—holds the door open for her. “Welcome,” the Viking says.

The human ear is about 80 percent of its adult size by the age of five, so that’s often when this is done—before the age when a kid will be made fun of in school.

Maggie skims down the left sidebar menu: Afghanistan, Iraq, Rwanda, India, Gaza, Kosovo, Pakistan, Israel, Chechnya, Indonesia, Sudan, Ukraine. Ray has ones closer to home—his home—like Asbury Park and Atlantic City. Then he lists topics too, like Famine, War, Crime and Punishment, Refugee Care.

Easily, she knows. She had seen it in the men—boys, really—she’d served with, some not even twenty years old. They were all strong, funny, smart, bright-eyed, with smiles that could cleave your heart in two—colorful, powerful life forces that were vibrant one moment, and dust the next. It isn’t hard to die. It doesn’t take much. That’s the worst part of it. There is a saying: “When one man dies, a whole universe dies,” and while the implications are obvious—the death of even a single soul is like destroying a world, that human life has profound value—dying is also routine, mundane, almost tedious.

elevator with some kind of purple quartz, amethyst

Above her head, a retractable roof reveals the inky expanse of an Arabian night. Neon drones paint the sky via intricate aerial choreography. The spectacle is mesmerizing. The drones fly with marching-band-like precision. It reminds Maggie of the Christmas light shows her parents would take her to as a kid, only raised to the tenth power.

“Why did you do it?”

“I’m not following.” “The world is about making a buck. We both get that, right?” “Sadly, we do.” “So if the rich man wants to get rid of the mistress and make a profit, what’s the best way to do that? You traffic the girl. Coming here is like turning in a leased car. They get her refurbished and send her back out.” “Oh my God!”

McCabe. Is life about quality or quantity? It’s a question you physicians ask every day, no? Do we measure life by the years—or the quality of those years? Aleksander grew up in poverty. Without