The VIP wing lobby of St. Jude's Hospital was extremely peaceful, which made the sound of Zoe's bare, muddy feet squeaking against the floor all the more noticeable.
"Excuse me."
Zoe blinked, looking to her left.
An older woman, draped in a beige cashmere shawl and clutching a Birkin bag like a shield, was staring openly at Zoe's feet. Her upper lip was curled into a sneer of profound, aristocratic disgust.
"Is there a problem?" Zoe asked, her PR-friendly customer service voice completely depleted.
"This is the VIP wing," the woman said, her eyes dragging up from the mud between Zoe's toes to the oversized, studded leather jacket. "Shoes are generally considered mandatory for hygienic reasons."
Zoe narrowed her eyes. Her best friend almost died tonight. She was absolutely not in the mood for a hospital Karen.
"Take a picture," Zoe snapped, popping her hip and crossing her arms. "It'll last longer. And use a flash, the lighting in here is terrible."
