“Thought so. I’ll let you get back to work.”
He gives my shoulder a single clap before leaving.
I turn back down the corridor toward Madison’s bay.
She’s still snoring when I pull back the curtain.
Her friends aren’t with her now. I passed them earlier, perched at a table down the hall with coffees and pastries, laughing as if this were a Sunday brunch, not an emergency department at midnight.
It must be nice to have people who just show up.
I step closer and gently nudge her on the shoulder. “Miss Callahan.”
Nothing.
“Madison,” I try again, a little firmer.
She stirs, lashes fluttering as bright green eyes open.
“There you are,” she murmurs, smiling as she wipes curls from her face. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
I huff a breath through my nose before I can stop myself.
I’ve met plenty of blunt patients. Usually, they’re scared or angry, or they’re coming for my jugular. This one is different.
She groans as she tries to sit up.
“You can stay lying down,” I tell her, stepping in instinctively.
She shakes her head. “No. I need to move. I’m getting rigor mortis.”
“That’s not exactly how it works.” I pull the stool closer and sit down. “Your MRI looks clear. No discissues. No structural damage,” I continue. “You’ve got a nasty muscle spasm that’s irritating the nerve. Painful, but temporary.”
She swallows and asks, “It’s not all in my head, is it?”
I blink. “What?”
“The pain,” she says. “It’s not me imagining it?”
“No, absolutely not. You injured yourself. The pain is real.”
The relief on her face is immediate. She exhales, nodding to herself as if filing it away somewhere important.
“Okay,” she says. “Okay.”
“Rest. Don’t stay in one position for too long. Gentle movement. Alternate heat and ice.”
“And the drugs?” she asks, hopeful.
I glance at her chart. Barely any doctor visits. No admissions. No red flags.
“I promise,” I say, “I’ll prescribe all the good drugs.”
Her whole face lights up. “Bless you.”
“No driving while you’re taking them,” I add. “Probably best at night.”
“Deal.”
