I walked out of the bathroom, my thoughts still swirling from the intense, locked-door confrontation with Daisy.
The quiet, sterile hallway of the White House's private medical wing felt almost surreal after the chaos of the night. Soft, ambient lighting cast gentle shadows along the walls as I made my way toward the observation lounge.
Madeline was already deep in a therapy session. Through the slightly ajar door, I saw her sitting on a plush couch with a warm blanket over her lap, speaking in a low, trembling voice to the psychiatrist. Her bandaged knees and thigh were visible, and she occasionally wiped at her eyes.
She looked drained but safe, finally getting the professional support she desperately needed to process the trauma. I didn't disturb her, simply exchanging a nod with the attending nurse who assured me, "She's responding well. The relaxation medication is helping."
