Cold, obviously, because Mrs. MacLeish’s water heater has apparently decided that producing hot water between seven and seven-fifteen in the morning is an unnecessary luxury.
I get dressed quickly: dark pants, gray turtleneck sweater, jacket.
My urban doctor uniform: Highlands edition.
I have the unpleasant certainty that today will not be any better than the previous ones.
As I head downstairs, I hear voices, which is unusual for a weekday at seven in the morning.
Mrs. MacLeish usually only hosts three or four guests at a time, passing tourists who leave early for their hikes.
But these voices aren’t discussing hiking trails.
They’re talking about… me.
I stop on the last step, hand gripping the banister, and listen.
“Someone has to tell him,” a male voice declares, one I immediately recognize.
Duncan Fraser. The farmer from the pub.
“That’s why we’re all here,” Mrs. MacLeish replies. “For moral support.”
I grimace.
I push open the dining room door and discover a scene straight out of a town council meeting.
Or an improvised tribunal.
Or some horrifying combination of both.
Mrs. MacLeish sits at the head of the table, coffee pot in hand, wearing the solemn expression of a judge about to deliver a sentence.
Around her sit Duncan Fraser, Moira MacTavish—the woman who threw me out of her house on day one of my Scottish descent into hell—Old Angus MacDonald, and two other villagers I vaguely recognize from passing them in the street.
They all stare at me with expressions somewhere between embarrassment and determination.
“Doctor McLeod,” Mrs. MacLeish says, setting down the coffee pot. “Please, have a seat.”
I remain standing in the doorway.
“What’s going on?”
“We need to discuss your… residence here.”
I blink.
“My residence?”
“Your lodging at the bed and breakfast,” she clarifies, as if that should’ve been obvious.
“Is this a joke?”
Duncan Fraser shakes his head gravely.
“We’re very serious, Doctor.”
I look from face to face around the table.
