“My mother has already claimed the pineapples,” Luke notes. “She took three of them to the fourth floor. She says they are ‘trophies.’”
I look at Luke. He’s wearing his blue scrubs, his stethoscope draped around his neck, and he looks infuriatingly professional. But he catches my eye, and for a second, the professionalism slips. He winks.
“Enjoy the melon, Dr. York,” he says. “I have rounds.”
He brushes past me, his arm grazing mine. It’s a casual touch to anyone watching, but I feel the heat of it right down to my toes.
“Whipped,” Jax coughs into his hand.
“Shut up, O’Connell.”
I am still riding the high of the fruit basket victory later the same day when Luke grabs my arm as we're on rotation together in the trauma ward.
“Do you hear that?” he asks.
We are walking past the main lobby atrium. Usually, this area is filled with the soft murmur of visitors and the squeak of wheelchairs. Today, it sounds like a boardroom negotiation gone wrong.
“I am not interested in your inventory challenges!” a familiar baritone booms from the direction of the Gift Shop. “I am interested in hydration! Effervescence! The Italian Alps!”
I freeze. I know that voice. I have heard that voice threaten sommeliers in three different languages.
“Oh no,” I whisper.
“Is that… Alistair?” Luke asks, looking horrified.
“It’s a Code Beige,” I say, breaking into a jog. “My father is low on blood sugar. He gets merger-happy when he’s hypoglycemic.”
We round the corner into the ‘St. Jude’s Gift & Floral Shop.’
The scene is a tableau of disaster.
Kyle, a sixteen-year-old volunteer with braces and a vest that is three sizes too big, is backed into a corner of the stuffed animal display. He is clutching a plush giraffe like a human shield.
Standing over him is Alistair York. My father is wearing a navy pinstripe suit, holding a bottle of generic club soda like it contains poison, and looking apoplectic.
Two bodyguards are standing by the magazine rack, looking bored. One of them is readingReader’s Digest.
“I don't control the stock, sir!” Kyle squeaks. “I just volunteer here for civics credit!”
“Civics is failing you, son!” Alistair shouts. “This water is flat! It is tap water with delusions of grandeur! I asked for San Pellegrino. The glass bottle. The one that tastes like minerals and superiority!”
“Father!” I bark, stepping into the shop.
Alistair spins around. His face lights up.
“Preston! Thank god. You have a lanyard. Fire this boy. And then burn this shop down for the insurance money.”
“We are not burning the gift shop,” I say, stepping between him and the terrified teenager. “Kyle, go take a break. Go hide in the cafeteria.”
Kyle drops the giraffe and flees.
I turn to Alistair. “What are you doing here? You haven't visited a hospital gift shop since 1998, and that was to buy breath mints after you yelled at the Governor.”
“I had a Board meeting,” Alistair huffs, adjusting his silk tie. “It ran long. I became parched. I came down here seeking refreshment, and I discovered this… wasteland.”
He gestures at the cooler.
“Dasani, Preston. They are selling Dasani. It’s essentially recycled puddle water.”
