Arthur Hymn is sitting up in bed, wearing a silk pyjama top he must have brought from home. He is red-faced, screaming into an iPhone.
Welling approaches. He uses his best therapeutic voice. I see him gesture calmly. I see him nod. I see him offer an empathetic hand.
Then I see Hymn throw a heavy glass water pitcher at him.
Welling retreats. He walks back out, looking ruffled, water dripping from his tweedelbow patch.
“He is not incompetent,” Welling declares, brushing droplets off his sleeve. “He is just an asshole. A narcissistic, Type-A corporate warlord. I can’t 5150 him for having a terrible personality, Maxwell. He has decision-making capacity. He’s just making a stupid decision.”
Max groans, dropping his head into his hands. “So I just let him die? The board will kill me.”
I look through the glass. Hymn is back on the phone, screaming about “dumping the shares.”
“He’s not listening to you because you’re speaking ‘Doctor,’” I say. “And he didn't listen to Dr. Welling because he was speaking ‘Feelings.’”
Welling and Max both turn to me.
“Excuse me?” Welling asks.
“He’s a CEO,” I explain. “He doesn't care about health. He cares about leverage. You’re trying to sell him survival. You need to sell him apivot.”
I straighten my white coat. I check my cuffs.
“Let me talk to him.”
“Preston, no,” Max warns. “He just threw a pitcher at the Chief of Psychiatry.”
“Dr. Welling used empathy,” I say. “I’m going to use capitalism. Give me two minutes. If I fail, you can sedate him.”
Welling looks at Max. Max looks at Welling.
“Two minutes,” Welling says, wringing out his tie. “But if he throws anything, I’m billing you for dry cleaning.”
I walk into the room.
“—I don't care what the SEC says, dump the shares!” Hymn is screaming. “Do it now! I want them bled dry by the closing bell!”
I close the door. I don't introduce myself. I don't use my “caring doctor” voice. I walk over to the sink, check my watch, and sigh loudly.
Hymn stops yelling. He lowers the phone. “Who the hell are you? I told the Tweed Jacket to get lost.”
“I’m Dr. York,” I say, bored. “Administration sent me to facilitate your exit strategy.”
“Exit strategy?” Hymn blinks. “I didn't say I was leaving.”
“Well, you aren't having the surgery,” I say, picking up his chart. “Which means you’re going to stroke out. Probably in the next twelve hours. We need to clear the bed. We have a waitlist. It’s an inventory issue.”
I look at him with the specific, pitying disdain of the 1%.
“It’s a shame, really. The optics of a mid-merger death are terrible. Very messy.”
Hymn bristles. “Optics?”
“Dying in a hospital bed while screaming at a nurse?” I shake my head. “It looks weak, Arthur. Can I call you Arthur?”
“No,” Hymn snaps. “You certainly can not.”
“Here is the reality, Arthur,” I continue, stepping closer, ignoring his refusal. “It looks uncontrolled. The shareholders will panic. The stock will tank forty percent the moment the obituary hits. It’s a hostile takeover of your own legacy. By a blood clot.”
