Martinez just asked if you're single. I told him you were taken. He seems disappointed.
I typed back:
Tell him I'm very flattered, but my heart belongs to his lieutenant.
Izzy
Smooth talker. How's your shift?
Perfect. Everything's perfect.
My third patient was walking so slowly down the hallway that I thought she might be having a stroke. Agnes Murphy was eighty-seven and apologizing with every step.
"Are you sure you don't want a wheelchair, ma'am?" I asked her, as we made our way to the exam room at the speed of continental drift. Mrs. Murphy waved me off.
"Absolutely not. I'm not going to be around walking much longer, and I'm going to do it until I can't anymore. But," she said, sheepishly, "I am sorry. I know you're busy, and here I am holding everyone up."
"Mrs. Murphy," I said cheerfully, "don't you worry about it. They pay me by the hour. You walk whatever speed you want."
She stopped walking entirely and looked at me, then burst into delighted laughter. "Oh, you're terrible! By the hour! George used to say things like that."
"George sounds like a smart man."
"He was. Fifty-five years married, and he never stopped making me laugh." She paused, looking a little sad. "I miss that."
"Well," I said, offering her my arm, "maybe I can fill in just for tonight. Did I tell you about the patient who came in last week convinced they were allergic to vitamin D?"
By the time we reached her room, Agnes was laughing again, and I was feeling that familiar warmth that came from making someone's day a little brighter.
The night continued in the same vein. A college student convinced WebMD that his runny nose was actually a rare autoimmune disorder turned out to have garden-variety allergies. A construction worker with a splinter the size of a toothpick spun a twenty-minute tale about workplace hazards andOSHA violations that ended with me removing said splinter in about thirty seconds.
Every patient got my full attention, every interaction felt effortless, and I found myself humming while I charted — something that didn't go unnoticed.
"Okay, what's going on?" Chloe asked during a rare quiet moment around 2 a.m.. "You've been walking around here like you won the lottery."
"Just having a good night," I said, not looking up from my computer.
"Jimmy." She lowered her voice. "You're humming. You just told a patient his hangnail was 'practically a medical emergency' and made him laugh."
I looked up at her. "Did I really say that?"
"Word for word."
"Wow. I sound like a joy to work with!"
"You are, usually. But this version of you is... different." She studied my face. "Good different. You look happy."
Before I could respond, Kellen appeared again, this time carrying a cup of coffee that looked like it could dissolve paint.
"Dalton," he said, settling into a chair with the exhausted grace of a man who'd given up on life somewhere around 2003. "You brought cookies."
It wasn't a question. I had, in fact, brought cookies — chocolate chip with sea salt, a recipe I'd been perfecting for months.
"I did."
"They're good."
"Thank you."
