Sergio coughs. It sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
"I don't have any medical training," Jessica protests.
"Don't need it. Answer phones. Schedule appointments. File paperwork." I shrug. "Straightforward."
"That's what Carlos said about carpentry. Right before I destroyed a porch and committed arson."
"My clinic is made of brick. Fire-resistant."
She stares at me. I stare back. I've had this exact staring contest with stubborn patients for years. I always win.
After thirty seconds, she breaks.
"Fine." She slumps in her chair. "But when I accidentally kill someone with a stapler, don't say I didn't warn you."
"Noted."
I grab my keys and head for the door.
This is definitely a mistake.
Jessica's first morning at the clinic starts well enough.
She arrives at eight, wearing a simple blouse and dark pants she borrowed from somewhere. Her face is set with determination. She looks ready for battle.
"Where do you want me?" she asks.
Dangerous question. My brain supplies several answers that have nothing to do with administrative work.
I point to the front desk instead. "Margo's station. Phone, computer, filing cabinets behind you. Patient files are alphabetized by last name. Appointments are in the system. Questions, ask me."
She nods. Sits down. Surveys the desk the way a general assesses a battlefield.
"I can do this," she mutters to herself.
I retreat to my office before I say something stupid. Before I mention how good she looks behind that desk. Before I admit that her scent is already threading through the clinic's antiseptic air, making the whole place smell less sterile and more welcoming.
For three hours, everything runs smoothly.
Jessica answers the phones with professional courtesy. Two appointments booked. She dodges Mrs. Whight's questions about why she's not with her husband.
I start to think I was wrong. Maybe this will work. Maybe she's found something she's good at.
Then I walk out to grab a patient file and find her standing in front of the filing cabinets, surrounded by chaos.
Files are everywhere. Stacked on the desk. Piled on the floor. Teetering in precarious towers on every available surface.
"What happened?" I ask.
Jessica spins around, eyes wild. "I was trying to help!"
"Help how?"
"The filing system! You had Anderson next to Abernathy, but Abbott was shoved in the middle. So I fixed it."
A cold feeling settles in my stomach. "Fixed it how?"
She beams. "Reorganized by first name! It's more intuitive. When someone calls, they say their first name first, right? So Aaron's under A, Beatrice under B."
