Sanders trails behind me, dragging his feet across the polished lobby floor. The Christmas decorations are in full swing. Garland wraps around the information desk, a massive tree by the elevators. It reminds me I need to get my own tree up. Sanders and I will do that this weekend.
"This way, Squirt." He's not so much of a squirt these days, but I've been calling him that since he was a baby.
The pediatric lounge occupies a corner of the second floor, designed to look cheerful with its bright colors and kid-sized furniture. A few other families cluster around the space. A woman is bouncing a fussy baby, an elderly man is reading to a little girl with her arm in a cast, and a couple is sitting idly, obviously worried about something.
"Vending machine's right there." I point to the corner. "Here's some money. Get a snack or whatever you want. There's a Starbucks down the hall."
Sanders perks up. "Bet. Thanks, Dad."
He bounces toward the machine, and for a second, he'sjust a regular kid excited about junk food. Not the child of divorced parents juggling weekend schedules and work emergencies. He's always been a trooper, rolling with the punches.
Two hours. Maybe less if it's straightforward.
Mrs. Henderson's chart flashes through my mind. The precision of yesterday's surgery, the clean incision, the textbook placement of the prosthetic. Infections happen. Not often with my work, but they happen.
"Dad?"
Sanders has claimed a corner chair, my phone balanced on his knees. A YouTube video plays something loud and animated.
"What's up? And turn that down, please. Be considerate of others."
Sanders adjusts the volume, his tongue sneaking out of the side of his mouth while he juggles everything. “No limits, right?” His grin flashes quick and sly, like he’s just won the lottery.
“Within reason.” I raise a brow.
“Reason being, whatever I decide while you’re gone,” he shoots back, thumbs flying as the screen lights his face.
That twinge of guilt settles heavily in my chest, the one I’ve carried since Lane and I split. She’d say I use bribes and screens instead of time. Maybe she’s not wrong. But what’s the alternative? He's a kid. He'll be fine.
I ruffle his hair, more for me than him. “Don't leave the hospital. I mean it.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles, already deep in whatever he's watching, the blue glow reflecting in his eyes.
"Dr. Beamer?" A nurse appears in the doorway. "Dr. Peck is waiting."
"Back in a flash," I call back to Sanders as Ifollow her back.
He doesn't look up from the screen, but his shoulders relax just a fraction. The kid's gotten good at rolling with the punches.
The elevator carries me down to the surgical floor, away from Christmas decorations and children's laughter. Back to the place where I know exactly what I'm doing.
The smell of surgical soap clings to my hands as I push through the OR doors. Peck is already bent over the chart, his brow furrowed.
“Sorry to drag you in,” he says, straightening. “I know it’s your weekend with Sand-o. But since it was your case…”
My jaw tightens, but I give a quick nod. I’d rather see it myself anyway. “What’s going on?”
Peck flips the chart closed with a sigh. “Temp spiked to 103.2. Aspiration looks like soup, purulent fluid.”
My stomach dips. Infected prosthetic. Shit. I should’ve known. “We’ll need to go back in, irrigate the hell out of it. If the hardware’s loose or the tissue’s too far gone, I may have to pull it.”
“That’s what I thought.” Peck rubs his forehead. “Figured you’d want eyes on it first since it’s yours.” He hesitates, then adds, “You pick up Sanders yet?”
I exhale hard, already knowing what I’m about to find. “Yeah. You were right to call me," I say, glancing toward the elevators. “Sanders is parked in the lounge with my phone. He won’t even notice I’m gone. Appreciate the call, Peck.”
Peck gives me a wry smile. “I’ll run by and check on him while you’re in there.”
I nod once, then step into Mrs. Henderson’s room for a quick exam. Her hip is red, hot, and draining. No question. This has to be fixed now.
