“And to have you here? Finally taking an interest? It’s the icing on the cake, son. Max is thrilled. He says the transition paperwork is impeccable.”
“I’m good at paperwork,” I say. My voice sounds hollow.
“You’re good at everything,” Alistair corrects. “Now, lunch? I heard a rumor that the club has flown in truffles from Italy. We should go intimidate a waiter.”
“I’m not hungry,” I say.
Alistair pauses. He looks at me. For a second, the bluster fades, replaced by a flicker of genuine paternal concern.
“Preston,” he says. “You’ve barely touched your scotch. And you’re reading a spreadsheet about… copier toner?”
I look down. I have indeed been staring at the toner budget for forty-five minutes.
“It’s important to manage overhead,” I lie.
Alistair sighs. He pats my shoulder again.
“It’s just adjustment, my boy. You’ve been down in the trenches. It takes time to get used to the castle again. You’ll be fine. By Friday’s vote, you’ll forget you ever owned a pair of scrubs.”
He leaves.
I sit alone in the silence.
I open my desk drawer. Inside, tucked behind a box of Montblanc pens, is a plastic name badge.
Dr. P. York. Intern.
I run my thumb over the letters.
I haven't been back to the apartment in Queens. I haven't used the espresso machine. I haven't slept more than two hours a night.
I told myself I was doing this for dignity. I told myself I was proving I wasn't a tourist.
But sitting here, surrounded by glass and silence, I realize the truth.
A tourist visits a place and leaves when it gets uncomfortable. I lived there. I loved there.
And I didn't leave because it was hard. I left because he told me to go.
LUKE
The Emergency Room is a machine. It runs on blood, adrenaline, and caffeine. It doesn't care if you’re happy. It doesn't care if your heart is currently sitting in your chest like a lead weight.
“Dr. Silva,” an intern—Jenkins—stammers. “Bed 6. The patient is… he’s asking for Dr. York.”
I freeze. I am stitching a laceration on a construction worker’s arm. My hand doesn't shake, because I am a professional, but my jaw tightens until my teeth ache.
“Dr. York is no longer with the program,” I say. My voice is flat. “Tell the patient he can see Dr. Mills.”
“He… he says Dr. Mills doesn't know the ‘protocol’ for his anxiety,” Jenkins whispers. “He says Dr. York promised to bring him a fidget spinner.”
“We are a hospital, Jenkins,” I snap. “Not a toy store. Give the patient 2 milligrams of Lorazepam and get back to work.”
Jenkins flinches. “Yes, Doctor.”
He scampers away.
I finish the stitch. I tie the knot. I strip off my gloves and toss them into the bin with more force than necessary.
