I brush past Indira, walking fast.
"Hey, Max?" Jax calls out.
I stop in the hallway, but I don't turn around.
"You forgot your pen," he says.
I reach into my pocket. Empty. I left my favorite pen—the limited edition Montblanc—on the desk.
"Keep it," I say, walking away. "Consider it a peace offering. Just don't chew on it."
The rest of the day is a blur of rounds, consults, and the relentless bureaucracy of hospital administration.
I avoid Office 104.
I do my charting at the nurses' station in the ICU. I eat my lunch (a quinoa salad, eaten with a fork, in silence) in the hospital cafeteria’s "Quiet Zone."
But I can't avoid him forever.
At 7:00 PM, I finally return to the office to grab my coat.The renovation crew has stopped drilling for the night, leaving the hallway in an eerie, dusty silence.
I open the door to 104.
The lights are off. The only illumination comes from the streetlights outside filtering through the glass of the Trauma Bay across the hall.
Jax is there.
He is asleep.
He is slumped forward in his chair, his arms crossed on the messy desk, his head resting on his forearms. The squeaky chair is finally silent.
I stand in the doorway, watching him.
Asleep, the chaos is gone. The frantic energy that vibrates off him is dialed down to zero. He looks younger. The lines of tension around his mouth have smoothed out.
I should leave. I should grab my coat and walk out.
But I step inside. I close the door softly behind me.
I walk over to the tape line. I stop at the border.
I look at his desk. It’s a disaster. But right in the middle of the mess, sitting on top of a stack of files, is my Montblanc pen.
He didn't chew on it. He placed it on a clean napkin.
Then, I look at my desk.
Frederick is there, still perfectly centred. But something is different.
I lean closer.
Taped to the front of Frederick’s white ceramic pot is a tiny, hand-drawn piece of paper. It has been cut into the shape of a t-shirt. On it, drawn in black sharpie, is the jagged lightning bolt logo ofAC/DC.
I stare at it.
Jax made my succulent a band t-shirt.
I look at Jax. He shifts in his sleep, a small, pained soundescaping his lips. He’s shivering. The heating in the basement is terrible, and he’s just in a t-shirt and scrubs.
