Leo doesn’t look at me. He never does when he’s working. His attention stays outward, monitoring movement and exits most people wouldn’t notice. I know he’s there, and that knowledge reassures me.
“Ivan,” I acknowledge, keeping my tone professional. “This isn’t a good place for visits.”
“Of course,” he replies easily, his accent faint but present, marking him as someone who learned English later and mastered it thoroughly. “I am here for Lila.”
“She’s in surgery.”
“So she mentioned.” His mouth curves slightly, an expression that suggests amusement without fully committing to it. “We are having dinner later. I thought I would surprise her.”
I glance at the flowers. Pale cream petals edged in blush pink, arranged with care.
“The front desk can make sure she receives them,” I offer.
“I was hoping to walk her out,” he responds, adjusting the bouquet. “But since I am here, may I ask you something medical?”
I sense the redirection almost immediately, the way I do when a moment doesn’t line up with its explanation. The flowers aren’t the reason he’s here. They make the interruption look intentional instead of invasive.
“That depends,” I answer.
“My uncle,” Ivan begins, adjusting the bouquet again. “He is in his seventies. Lives alone. Recently he has been confused. Repeating questions. Forgetting appointments. Small things, but accumulating.”
The question is reasonable and delivered calmly. People ask physicians for advice everywhere, from grocery stores to dinner parties and waiting rooms.
“Has he been evaluated?” I ask.
“He refuses,” Ivan replies, a trace of concern crossing his face. “Insists it is temporary. Stress from a recent move.”
“That’s common,” I tell him, because it is. “Cognitive changes have many causes. Medication interactions. Infections. Metabolic imbalance. Dehydration. Vitamin deficiencies.”
“Not necessarily dementia,” he says.
“Not necessarily,” I confirm. “But delay increases risk.”
Ivan nods slowly, his gaze unwavering. He listens as if he is genuinely processing the information rather than faking interest.
“If he were brought here,” he asks, “would someone like you assess him?”
“In the emergency setting, yes,” I reply. “Initial evaluation. Bloodwork. Imaging if indicated. Otherwise, neurology would follow.”
“And you decide whether something requires immediate action,” he notes.
“Yes.”
His gaze lingers. “That is a great deal of responsibility.”
“It’s the job,” I answer.
“Responsibility often looks like access from the outside,” he replies gently.
Down the corridor, Leo redistributes his weight. The movement is minimal, but the timing is precise. Ivan has closed half a pace of distance, close enough now that I can see the finestitching along his collar and the way his cufflinks shine in the light when his wrist turns.
I don’t look toward him. Knowing he’s there keeps my focus intact. Ivan may have passed security without resistance, but this space isn’t his.
“Patients under stress talk,” Ivan continues. “Pain lowers inhibition. Fear creates urgency.”
“They’re frightened,” I reply, meeting his eyes. “That doesn’t make their words public property.”
“No,” he agrees. “But it makes them informative.”
