I turn and walk toward Office 104.
As I reach the door, I glance back. Indira is already opening the binder again.
I suppress a smile.
3-to-1.
I wonder if I can place a bet on myself.
Silence is a diagnostic tool.
If the heart is silent, it is dead. If the lungs are silent, they are collapsed. If the gut is silent, it is obstructed. In medicine, silence is rarely a sign of peace; it is usually a sign of impending failure.
Dr. Jax O’Connell has been silent for forty-five minutes.
I am sitting at my desk in the Fishbowl, pretending to read a journal article on aortic dissections, but I haven't turned a page. Across the room, Jax’s chair is empty. His jacket is gone. His keys are gone.
Technically, his shift ended at 6:00 PM. It is now 11:30 PM.
I should go home. My apartment is clean. My sheets are Egyptian cotton. My refrigerator is stocked with sparkling water.
But I have a nagging feeling in my gut—a clinical intuition—that something is wrong.
Jax has been manic for the last three days. He has picked up two extra shifts. He covered for a resident who had the flu. He volunteered for a triage shift in the ER. He is moving faster, talking louder, and laughing harder than usual. To the casual observer, he is high-energy. To me, he looks like a centrifuge spinning out of control.
I stand up. I button my coat.
I leave the office and walk down the hall toward the elevators. I tell myself I am going to the parking garage.
I do not go to the parking garage.
I walk past the elevators, down the long, dimly lit corridor that leads to the On-Call Rooms.
The hallway is quiet. The night shift staff are clustered at the nurses' station, laughing softly at a video on a phone. They don't see me.
I stop outside Room 3B.
The door is closed. There is no light spilling from underneath.
I hesitate. This is an invasion of privacy. If he is in there with someone—a distinct possibility given his charm and lack of inhibition—I do not want to know.
But then I hear it.
A sound. Not the rhythmic squeak of a bedspring, but a rhythmictapping.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
It is fast. Irregular.
I knock once.
"Jax?"
The tapping stops instantly.
"Occupied," a voice croaks. It sounds like gravel.
I open the door anyway.
