I’m just not McKinnon.
The second was Mr. Douglas, who wanted me to renew his statin prescription without an examination first because “McKinnon always did it that way.” I insisted on checking hisblood pressure beforehand. He called me a city bureaucrat and showed me the door.
As for the third…
I’d rather not think about the third.
I push open the pub door and a wave of warmth greets me, along with the mixed scents of fried food, beer, and fireplace smoke. It’s four in the afternoon on a Tuesday, and the place is already half full. Apparently, the Highlands have a very relaxed relationship with drinking hours.
Or maybe I’m the one developing a desperate relationship with the need for alcohol.
The conversations die the second I walk in. Heads turn in my direction. Eyes assess me. I recognize a few faces—potential patients who refused my services, villagers I passed on the street who deliberately looked away.
Looks like I already have a fan club.
I head for the bar and set my medical bag at my feet before sliding onto a stool. A man in his thirties with red hair and a neatly trimmed beard approaches me with a smile that actually seems genuine.
A first since arriving in Glenfield.
“Hello! You must be the new doctor. I’m Ewan Fraser.”
He offers his hand. I shake it, surprised by the warmth of his welcome.
“Finn McLeod.”
“Welcome to The Grumpy Sheep. What can I get you?”
I study the rows of bottles behind him.
“A scotch. Double.”
One eyebrow lifts, but he wisely doesn’t comment. I appreciate that. He pours the drink and sets it in front of me.
“Rough day?”
“You could say that.”
I take a sip. The whiskey burns pleasantly down my throat, temporarily driving away the cold that’s settled deep in my bones since this morning.
“My father ran this pub for thirty-five years,” Ewan says while wiping down the counter. “Retired two months ago. Said he wanted to enjoy life before he got too old, his words not mine. Now he and my mother are on a cruise in the Bahamas.”
I glance up, struck by the unintended parallel between our careers.
“Hard stepping into his shoes?”
“You have no idea,” he replies with a laugh completely free of bitterness. “Customers compare me to him constantly. ‘Your father poured pints differently.’ ‘Your father always had a funny story.’ Like I’m just a pale imitation.”
For the first time in weeks, I feel understood.
“I know exactly what you mean.”
“Figured you might. McKinnon was... how should I put this... an institution in Glenfield.”
“Apparently.”
Ewan refills my glass without asking.
“Give them time. People around here hate change, but they’ll come around eventually. Look at me—I survived three straight months of nonstop comparisons. Now I’m down to only two or three a day.”
