“That should never be said out loud,” Emmy mutters.
Dr. Lawson writes something in the chart.
I grin and wink at him because I have very little shame without the medication. With it, shame is nonexistent. “Thanks, doc.”
He dips his chin. “I’ll be back after your MRI with the results.”
“And the drugs?” I call after him.
“With the drugs,” he promises, already pulling the curtain closed.
The second he’s gone, Emmy and Celeste turn on me.
“Don’t you two look at me like that,” I warn. “I crawled out of hot yoga yesterday. I no longer feel embarrassed.”
“You hit on a doctor,” Emmy says.
“I complimented his appearance,” I correct. “I was being kind.”
Everything feels a little fuzzy now and soft around the edges
I groan as I sink back into the bed.
“That’s right,” Celeste murmurs as she pulls a blanket over me. “You go to sleep before you get yourself a restraining order.”
I smile, my eyes already drifting shut.
Hot yoga was a terrible idea.
Four
Beckett
“Is she… snoring?”
Steve leans back in his chair and peers through the window. “Oh yeah. Haven’t seen someone sleep through an MRI like that in a while.”
MissMadison Callahan is completely out cold, with copper waves fanned out around her head.
“Honestly,” Steve adds, tapping the keyboard, “I’ll take snoring over panic any day. At least she’s not fighting it.”
The images scroll across the screen. Vertebrae. Discs. Nerve roots. I track them with trained eyes, catching what matters and dismissing what doesn’t.Everything’s where it should be. Inflamed and angry as hell, but intact.
“No herniation,” Steve says. “No compression. Muscle spasm probably aggravated the nerve.”
I nod once.
“Good. That’s good,” I say, already stepping back into the corridor.
The emergency department hums as it always does at this hour, with the distant beep of monitors layered over quiet conversations and the occasional raised voice.
I grab the hot yoga girl’s chart and another off the desk because there’s always another.
“Now,” a familiar voice says, “what crime have we committed to deserve you on shift again?”
Carole is leaning against the counter, coffee in hand.
“Short-staffed,” I say.
