“He’s very… rough around the edges, isn't he?” Catherine observes.
“He’s polite, Mother,” I say.
“He’s a scholarship boy, Preston,” she sighs. “I had his file pulled. State school. Single mother. Nurse.”
She says "Nurse" like it’s a contagious disease.
“I know,” I say stiffly. “His mother is Rosa Ortiz. She’s the Charge Nurse.”
“Ah,” Catherine nods. “Staff. It explains the… lack of polish. The shorts. The way he holds the club like a baseball bat.”
She turns to me.
“Harrison fits in, Preston. He knows the rules.He knows the dress code. Dr. Silva is… he’s a temporary amusement. A tourist in our world.”
I grip my putter. “He’s not a tourist.”
“Isn't he?” She gestures to Luke. “Look at him. He doesn't belong here. And you know it.”
We are sitting on the terrace for lunch. The view is spectacular. The tension is thick enough to cut with a steak knife.
Alistair is sulking because he owes Luke two thousand dollars. Harrison is explaining the history of the club sandwich.
“Actually, the triple-decker design was a structural innovation of the late Victorian era,” Harrison drones.
“Fascinating,” Luke says, taking a bite of his burger. He is eating with his hands. Catherine is watching him with horror.
“Dr. Silva,” Alistair interrupts, unable to help himself. “I have to ask. That swing on the eighth hole. You generated significant torque. What’s your secret? Pilates? Steroids?”
“Trauma bay,” Luke says, wiping his mouth. “Lifting patients. CPR. It’s all core strength.”
“CPR,” Alistair shudders. “How visceral. You know, we pay people to do that sort of thing so we don't have to touch the… fluids.”
“Someone has to do the plumbing, sir,” Luke says calmly.
“Exactly,” Catherine chimes in. “That’s what I was telling Preston. Everyone has their place. Some people run the hospital. Some people… clean it up.”
She smiles at Luke. It’s a cold, condescending smile.
“It’s good that you know your station, Dr. Silva. It saves everyone from… awkward misunderstandings.”
Silence falls over the table. Even Harrison stops talking about sandwiches.
This is it. The humiliation ritual.
I open my mouth to defend him. To scream. To flip the table.
But Luke puts a hand on my arm. He looks calm. He looks… bored.
He picks up his iced tea.
“Speaking of stations, Mr. York,” Luke says, turning to Alistair. “I noticed that driver you were using today. The ‘Titanium X’?”
Alistair blinks. “Yes? Custom made. Japanese import.”
“Beautiful club,” Luke nods. “Must have cost a fortune. Three thousand?”
“Four,” Alistair corrects proudly.
