"What was the worst excuse?"
"Man convinced he was having a heart attack," he says. "Turned out to be gas station sushi."
I wince. "That's not a medical emergency; that's a poor life choice."
"I didn't say that to him," Beck says.
"But you thought it."
He doesn't deny it. His mouth does the almost-smile thing again, and this time it gets a little closer to the real thing before he reins it in.
We fall quiet again, but the temperature of it has changed. Easier. Like we've found shared ground in the particular language of people who show up when other people can't.
"Denver Health before this?" he asks.
"Trauma center."
He looks at me more carefully. "That's a significant change."
"Yeah, well." I shrug. "Like you said. Slower pace."
"How long were you there?"
"Five years."
"That's not that long."
"Long enough." The words come out flat, and I watch him register the tone the same way he registered the tightness in his own voice a minute ago --- a small nod, subject closed, no further questions. It should feel like getting away with something. Instead it just feels like two people standing in a kitchen, both carrying things they're not ready to put down.
"First shift at the station go okay?" I ask.
"Crew's still sizing me up," he says. "They're polite."
"But distant."
"Yeah."
"They'll come around. Station 7's good people. Just protective of their own."
He grunts. "Noticed that."
"Show them you're solid in a call and they'll trust you. They're not complicated."
"That's the plan."
Through the window, Clarence appears on the railing and meows. Loud and pointed. Beck's eye twitches.
"He did that last night too," he mutters.
"Maybe he's hungry."
"I'm not feeding him," Beck says, with the conviction of a man who will absolutely be feeding him within the week.
"You said that very convincingly."
"I mean it."
"Sure you do, Captain."
