I nod and back toward the door, trying not to think too hard about any of it.
But as I walk out into the afternoon sun, her voice echoes in my head.
He keeps asking if he’s going to lose his leg.
And fuck, I hate how much that gets to me.
Chapter six
A top-up of whatever you’re running low on
Carina
My coffee sits cold to my right, untouched for long enough that the surface has gone dull. I took two sips earlier and forgot about it.
Checking the time on my screen, I do the math automatically—how long since I ate, how long until I realistically will. My stomach lurches, more out of habit than hunger.
I close the chart I’m on and open another.
Levi’s name jumps out at me before anything else. I skim his notes even though I know them already, my brain replaying the last meeting I had with his family.
I exhale slowly through my nose and focus on the screen. Not on his age or his face. Lab values. Imaging. Facts I can control. Facts that don’t look back at me with too-big blue eyes.
The fundraiser tab is still open in the corner of my desktop. I haven’t closed it since this morning, and I tell myself it’s because I’ll get back to it between patients, that I just need a minute to breathe first. The truth is, every time I look at the numbers, my throat goes dry.
It’s still not enough.
Reid’s offer flashes through my mind uninvited, the way it has all morning, but I push it away.
Of course he offered to help. He’s decent, and he’s bored. He’s sidelined with an injury while the Olympics happen without him, and half his friends are probably playing. He needs something to do with his hands, somewhere to put the excess energy that used to belong to the ice.
That’s all this is. Circumstantial kindness.
I take another breath, straighten the pen on my desk so it lines up with the edge, and reach for the next chart.
The buzz from the desk phone cuts through the quiet, and I glance at it, irritated despite myself.
“Carina,” I answer.
“Dr. Park.” Jenny’s voice slides through the receiver, all fakely polished. “You have a visitor.”
I close my eyes for half a second. “I’m not scheduled.”
“I know,” she says. “But he asked very nicely.”
“Who?”
There’s the faintest pause, the kind that tells me she’s judging. “Reid Hutchison.”
My hand stills on the desk.
“He’s not my patient,” I say automatically.
“Oh, I’m aware,” Jenny replies. “He said he just wanted a quick word. He’s standing right here.”
I stare at the wall in front of me, at the framed print I’ve seen so many times, it’s lost all meaning. This is not appropriate. He doesn’t have an appointment, and he doesn’t belong on my schedule anymore. Boundaries exist for a reason, and I’m very good at maintaining them.
“Tell him—” I start, then stop.
