“Good seeing you, son. And Dr. Silva, tell your mother… tell her I’m behaving. I don't want to end up in the binder.”
Alistair sweeps out of the store, flanked by his security detail.
The silence in the gift shop is deafening. The plush giraffe stares at us from the floor.
Luke looks at the door. He looks at me.
“Your father,” Luke says slowly, “just admitted to frequenting a leather dungeon in Berlin because he thought it was an art exhibit.”
“He thinks ‘Safe Word’ is a banking term,” I say, picking up the giraffe. “We don't correct him. It’s safer this way.”
Luke shakes his head. He looks traumatized.
“He said Klaus would adore my deltoids, Preston.”
“Klaus has good taste,” I say. “Come on. I think Kyle left the register unlocked. Let’s steal a Snickers bar before security comes back.”
Luke laughs, a sound that is half-exhaustion, half-hysteria.
“You’re buying,” he says.
“I’m stealing,” I wink. “Robin Hood, remember?”
My rotation in Psychiatry is going disturbingly well.
I spent the morning shadowing Dr. Julian Welling, the Chief of Psychiatry. Welling is a man who wears tweed jackets with elbow patches and bow ties unironically. He speaks in a voice so soothing it could tranquilize a rhinoceros, and he looks at me less like a student and more like a fascinating, exotic bird that has accidentally flown into a window.
At 2:00 PM, Welling’s pager goes off. He checks it and sighs, a sound of deep, existential weariness.
“Cardio ICU,” Welling reads. “Dr. Maxwell York is requesting a capacity evaluation. Immediate. Note says:‘Patient is irrational. Bring the heavy meds.’”
He looks at me, eyes twinkling behind his wire-rimmed glasses. “Well, Dr. York. Let’s go see what your brother has broken. Perhaps we can prescribe him a vacation.”
We head down to the fourth floor. The Cardio ICU is quiet, rhythmic, and smells like Betadine and high stakes.
We find Max outside Room 412. He is pinching the bridge of his nose. He looks like he is trying to calculate the legal ramifications ofdefenestration.
“Dr. Welling,” Max says, looking relieved. “And… Preston. You’re shadowing?”
“I’m observing the master,” I say, leaning against the nurses' station. “What’s the crisis?”
“He’s refusing the valve,” Max says, gesturing vaguely at the glass door. “Arthur Hymn. CEO of HymnTech. Controlling interest in half the silicon chips on the planet.”
Welling raises an eyebrow. “I know him. He donated the new wing at Columbia. What’s the issue?”
“Severe aortic stenosis,” Max explains. “He needs a valve replacement immediately. If he sneezes too hard, he drops dead. But he’s refusing to sign the consent forms.”
“Why? Fear of mortality? Unresolved childhood trauma regarding helplessness?”
“Fear of the market,” Max sighs. “He says he’s in the middle of a merger and can’t be under anesthesia for four hours because the ‘sharks will circle.’”
“So you called me?”
“I need you to declare him incompetent,” Max snaps. “He’s choosing stock options over oxygen. That is irrational. I need to save his life against his will.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Welling says, adjusting his bow tie. “Stay here, Preston. Watch and learn. The key is validation.”
Welling enters the room. I watch through the glass.
