"Or maybe they're nervous because you're standing there looking like you're about to clear a building."
"I'm standing here drinking coffee."
"You're standing there drinking coffee while simultaneously cataloging every exit and calculating response times." I lean against the counter. "There's a difference."
His mouth curves slightly. "Situational awareness. Keeps people alive."
"In combat zones, sure. But this is a hospital lounge."
"Tell that to the guy who attacked you in the parking lot." He takes a sip. "Threats don't care about location."
"So I'm supposed to just accept that everyone around me is a potential threat?"
"You're supposed to accept that someone wants you dead, which means yes, everyone's a potential threat until NCIS clears them."
I set my cup down harder than necessary. "That's paranoid."
"That's realistic." He doesn't rise to the bait, voice staying level. "You think someone with access to hospital supplies is involved. That means it could be anyone who works here."
"Not everyone."
"No?" He gestures toward the door. "How well do you know Randolph?"
"Well enough. We've worked together for a little less than a year, but we’ve run into each other at conferences."
"And before that? Where did he work? What's his financial situation? Does he have any reason to need money badly enough to steal medical equipment?"
I open my mouth. Close it. "I don't know."
"Exactly." There's no judgment in his voice, just fact. "I'm not saying suspect everyone. I'm saying trust no one until NCIS clears them."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It's automatic now. Like breathing." He finishes his coffee. "You do the same thing in the OR—assess everyone's competence, track who's doing what, stay alert for problems."
"That's different."
"How?"
"Because in the OR I'm evaluating skill. You're evaluating whether my colleagues want to kill me."
"Both are threat assessment. Different applications, same principle." He rinses his cup in the sink. "You don't trust a resident you've never worked with to handle something critical, right? You verify their competence first."
He's not wrong, which is irritating. "Fine. But I'm not going to treat everyone like they're out to get me."
"I'm not asking you to. That's my job." He leans against the counter, arms crossed. "You focus on surgery. I'll focus on keeping you alive while you do it."
"By making everyone nervous."
"If that's what it takes."
I should argue more. Should push back on his certainty, his calm acceptance that paranoia is just good tactical planning. But my second surgery is scheduled for late morning, and I don't have time for philosophical debates about trust.
"I need to check on my patient," I say.
"Lead the way."
The hernia repair goes smoothly. Another routine case. Thatcher waits outside the OR again, and when I emerge over an hour later he's standing in the same spot, looking like he could stand there for another three hours without complaint.
