And in the centre of the room, sitting on a perfectly organized stack of chux pads, is Preston York.
He is holding a clipboard. He looks serene. He looks like he just finished a yoga retreat.
“You’re back,” he says, not looking up. “You’re early. I was just debating the aesthetic merit of the emesis basins. Kidney-shaped is so… mid-century modern, don't you think?”
I stare at the shelves. I stare at him.
“What did you do?” I ask. “Did you hire someone? Did you call a team?”
“Please,” Preston scoffs. “I wouldn't trust a contractor with this. This required a vision.”
He stands up. He walks over to the gauze section.
“I noticed we were low on the premium Kerlix rolls,” he says, tapping a label. “So I called Supply Chain. I spoke to a lovely woman named Barb. I told her that if she sent up five extra cases, I would send her a voucher for a spa day at the Mandarin Oriental.”
He points to a massive stack of high-quality gauze in the corner.
“Barb delivered.”
I walk over to the shelf. I pull out a box of 14-gauge angiocaths. It slides out smoothly. It is exactly where it should be.
“This is…” I struggle for the word.
“It’s a boutique experience,” Preston supplies. “I call it ‘The Silva Collection.’ Do you like it?”
I look at him. He’s smirking. He’s waiting for me to yell at him for wasting time, or for bribing Barb, or for the calligraphy.
But I can’t. Because for the first time in three years, I can actually see the back of the closet.
“The labels,” I say, pointing to“Sharps: Do Not Touch Without Dr. Silva.”
“A safety precaution,” Preston says innocently. “And a branding opportunity. You have a very strong brand, Luke. Scowls and competence. I wanted to reflect that.”
I fight the urge to smile. I fight it hard.
“You bribed Barb with a spa day?”
“It was a Groupon,” he lies. I know it wasn't a Groupon. “And she deserves it. Supply Chain is a thankless job.”
I sigh. I look at the pristine rows of saline.
“It’s good,” I admit, grudgingly. “It’s… efficient.”
Preston beams. It’s a blinding, thousand-watt smile that lights up the dim closet.
“High praise from the Chief,” he says. “Does this mean I graduate from Scut Duty?”
“No,” I say, turning to leave to hide the fact that I am definitely not annoyed anymore. “It means you’re in charge of the supply closet permanently. Congratulations, Dr. York. You’ve been promoted to Quartermaster.”
Preston’s smile doesn't falter.
“I accept,” he says. “But I’m ordering scented shelf liners. Lavender. For the stress.”
I walk out the door.
“Don't push it, York!”
PRESTON
