He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pair of exam gloves. He snaps them on.
“Mother, put her on the counter. I need to do a field assessment.”
Catherine places the dog on the triage desk.
Preston steps up. He puts his stethoscope in his ears. He places the diaphragm on the dog’s chest. He listens intently. He frowns. He checks the dog’s gums. He lifts one paw and checks the reflex.
He looks like he is defusing a bomb.
“Mmm,” Preston hums. “Tachycardia. Elevated cortisol.”
“Oh god,” Catherine whispers.
“It’s the environment,” Preston diagnoses, pulling thestethoscope off. “She’s sensing the ambient stress of the waiting room. It’s affecting her chi.”
“I knew it!” Catherine cries. “I told you, Dr. Silva! The energy in here is toxic!”
“It’s very toxic,” Preston agrees. “Here is my professional medical opinion. You need to evacuate immediately.”
“Evacuate to where?”
“The Penthouse,” Preston orders. “Turn the AC to sixty-eight degrees. Close the blackout curtains. She needs a low-stimulus environment. And for diet?”
He pauses, looking thoughtful.
“Filtered water. And… sliced cucumber. No salmon.”
“Cucumber,” Catherine repeats, nodding solemnly as if receiving a cure for the plague. “For the antioxidants.”
“Precisely. It will flush the toxins causing the melancholy.” Preston leans back. “Now go. Quickly. Before she inhales any more… public air. And don’t bother Max, he’s in a very complex surgery involving… fluids.”
Catherine zips the bag with decisive speed. She adjusts her sunglasses.
“You always were the sensible one, Preston. Though I still don’t understand why you insist on playing doctor in this… petting zoo.” She casts a withering look at the glow stick kid, who is now dry-heaving into a bucket. “Call me later. Your father is threatening to buy a vineyard in Napa and I need you to talk him out of it. He doesn't even drink Merlot.”
She turns and marches out, theclick-clackfading into the distance.
Silence returns to the triage station.
I stand frozen, staring at the empty space where the hurricane just was.
Preston lets out a long, ragged breath. He rips off the glovesand tosses them in the bin. He sags against the counter, rubbing his face with both hands.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles into his palms. “I’ll… I’ll go clean the bedpans in Trauma 2 as penance. I’ll scrub the floors. I’ll wax the floors.”
I stare at him.
I have spent the last week thinking Preston York is a useless, spoiled tourist. I thought he was here to play dress-up.
But I just watched him diagnose a dog with "toxic chi" to save my ER from a hostile takeover.
“You just…” I struggle for words. “You told her the MRI would scramble the dog’s equilibrium.”
Preston looks up. He looks exhausted. “You can’t fight crazy with facts, Luke. You have to fight it with bigger, more expensive crazy. If you tell her ‘no,’ she buys the building. If you tell her the building isn’t good enough for her dog, she leaves.”
“And the cucumber?”
“She hates the smell of salmon,” Preston shrugs. “If the dog eats salmon, the dog smells like salmon. If the dog smells like salmon, Mother gets a migraine. If Mother gets a migraine, she calls me.”
