“He would’ve done it anyway.”
I feel something inside me crack.
“Anyone else want to add something?” I ask in a neutral voice. “While we’re at it?”
The woman in the blue scarf timidly raises her hand.
“You never smile.”
“Excuse me?”
“You never smile,” she repeats louder. “McKinnon smiled all the time. It made people feel comfortable.”
“I smile when there’s a reason to smile.”
“McKinnon always found a reason,” she murmurs.
The man in the tweed cap clears his throat.
“You drive too fast through the village.”
I turn toward him, stunned.
“I drive thirty kilometers an hour.”
“Exactly. Too fast.”
“The speed limit is forty!”
“Yes, but nobody drives forty. It’s disrespectful.”
I close my eyes.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Count to three.
But I’m running out of relaxation techniques and starting to get seriously irritated.
“Let me summarize,” I say, reopening my eyes. “I’m too cold, I spill drinks, I don’t smile enough, I take my job as a doctor too seriously, and I obey speed limits. Is that correct?”
“In essence, yes,” Mrs. MacLeish confirms.
“And all of this justifies a meeting at seven in the morning?”
“We wanted to make sure everyone could attend,” Duncan explains. “This is important.”
I look at them all.
These people judging me because I’m not a man who isn’t even here anymore.
A man who apparently was some hybrid of Mother Teresa and Superman.
“McKinnon was a saint,” I say slowly. “I understand that. But he left. He’s in the Canary Islands sipping cocktails while I’m trying to do my job in a village that hates me.”
“No one hates you,” Mrs. MacLeish corrects gently. “We simply find you… unsuitable.”
