“Well,” he mutters disapproval laced in his words even though I haven’t done anything yet, “you look rough.”
I swallow my irritation and offer a tight smile. “Morning, Doctor.”
He moves past the desk, flipping through charts I already prepared. “Did you get the insurance pre-auth sent for Mrs. Raymond?”
“Yes.”
“And did you reschedule Martinson’s cleaning?”
“Yes.”
“And did you—” he rattles on more patient names to which I confirm all tasks complete.
“Yes, Doctor.” I pause. “The entire day has been confirmed and all prior authorizations are done and coded.”
He studies me again, something between annoyance and mild concern flickering in his eyes. “Try to hydrate. Your eyes are puffy today. You look pale. Definitely drink more water.”
Then he disappears into the back, leaving a trail of sandalwood-scented authority behind him.
I let myself sag in my chair for a whole three seconds.
Then the door opens.
And the day officially begins.
By ten a.m., I’ve answered seventeen phone calls, scheduled six appointments, rescheduled four more, filled out two insurance claims, and dealt with one woman who insisted she had sent an email two months ago and therefore shouldn’t have to pay a missed appointment fee.
And I am so tired I feel it in my teeth.
The office is warm now—almost too warm—and I realize I haven’t stopped shivering. Not from temperature. From exhaustion, probably. From the residual shock of last night. From everything I haven’t allowed myself to process yet.
I rub my thumb into my palm, grounding myself, and take a breath. Patients come and go. I smile through all of it. The fake receptionist smile. The “yes of course we can look into that for you” voice. The “no worries, it happens all the time” tone. It all feels automatic now.
Around noon, Kendra pops her head out of an exam room. “Hey, Holley? Can you bring me the 4-0 sutures? I forgot to prep my station for the upcoming extraction. I need to check the patient in and don’t want to hold up Dr. Kline when he gets in to do the procedure.”
“They’re in the cabinet by the back sink, right?”
“No, they’re,” She stops mid-sentence and mid-stride studying me. “Holley. Are you okay?”
I blink at her. Once. Twice. Apparently too slowly.
She frowns. “You’re not you, it’s like something is off today.”
I try to smile again, but my cheek feels stiff. “Just tired.”
She studies me longer than she normally would—her chirpy vibe replaced with something quieter, almost concerned. “Okay. Well, the sutures are actually—never mind. I’ll grab them.”
She disappears, leaving me with the uncomfortable feeling of being seen.
I hate being seen.
Especially when I’m barely holding myself together.
Lunch break arrives like a blessing, and I slip outside with my coat pulled tight around me, even though the air is warmer than last night by a mile. The cold still clings to me. Like it seeped into my bones.
I sit in my car—not to nap, because I know if I close my eyes I won’t wake up—but to breathe. To stretch. To drink the lukewarm coffee I reheated an hour ago in the office.
My phone buzzes.
