“I’ll do my best.”
Dr. Fernandez finishes the last suture and leans back to assess her work. “That should hold nicely. Let’s get those X-rays of his hand. Bradford, start him on pain medication and antibiotics.”
The portable X-ray tech arrives, takes the films, and a few minutes later the images fill the monitor showing a severe sprain of the fourth metacarpal with significant soft tissue swelling throughout the hand. No fracture, which is the good news. Painful, but it will recover with proper immobilization and time. Dr. Fernandez examines the images and nods.
“Three weeks in a splint, minimum,” she says, padding his hand carefully before applying the hard splint. “No heavy lifting, keep it completely dry, and follow up with orthopedics in a week to make sure everything is settling correctly. The thigh wound will need daily dressing changes for the next ten to fourteen days.” Shelooks up at George. “Do you have someone at home who can help with that?”
“I can manage it myself,” George says, wincing slightly as she makes a final adjustment to the splint.
“Oh, I can do it!” Charlie’s voice comes from just outside the trauma bay. I turn to see her lingering near the doorway, a patient chart in her hands. She must have been passing by and caught the end of our conversation. “I don’t mind making house calls for wound care. It’s actually kind of my thing.”
The irritation moves through me before I can get in front of it. I keep it off my face.
Dr. Fernandez is watching this entire exchange as if she’s seen this exact scenario play out in her ED many times before. “We have community nurses for home visits. I was thinking more along the lines of someone close to you who can step in if needed. If there’s no one, we can organize nurse visits. What do you think, George?”
He glances at me, then across at Charlie, navigating the polite path to avoid hurting anyone’s feelings.
“I can do it,” I say firmly, even more decisive than I intend. “We know each other, and I know where he lives. I’m off tomorrow morning so it’s not an issue.”
Charlie’s expression falters for a split second before she recovers with a professional smile. “Oh, right. If you need someone to cover a day, just let me know.”
“Will do,” I say, with the intention of handling every dressing change, rain or shine.
Dr. Fernandez finishes wrapping the splint, sits back, and strips off her gloves, already mentally moving to the next patient. “Bradford is an excellent nurse. You’re in very good hands.”
“Good hands,” George repeats, and there’s something in his tone that pushes heat up the back of my neck. “Good to know.”
“You’ll be sore for a few days, but you’ll heal up fine as long as you follow the instructions carefully. Bradford willcoordinate your wound care.” Dr. Fernandez pauses, and the faintest amusement crosses her face.
“Thank you, Doctor,” George says, sounding grateful even with the morphine taking some of the bite out of him. “Appreciate you not letting me bleed out.”
“That’s what we’re here for. Try not to make this a regular occurrence.”
Carter helps George into the wheelchair that hospital policy requires for all discharging patients, and I find myself walking with them toward the exit despite having three patients still waiting on me. The automatic doors slide open and the night air comes in, warm and carrying the faint salt edge that San Diego evenings hold onto long after the sun is gone. It’s past eight-thirty and the parking lot sits under amber floodlights, the sky above it a deep, flat blue that hasn’t decided to go fully dark yet.
George looks up at me from the wheelchair, his eyes still a little unfocused but clearer than they were almost an hour ago.
“Thanks,” he says.
“I’ll come by tomorrow morning around ten,” I hear myself say. “I’ll make sure you’ve got everything you need set up.”
Our eyes stay on each other for a moment, neither of us filling it with anything.
Carter clears his throat. “We should probably get going, and I need to figure out what the hell we’re doing about the shop and that death trap of a shelving unit.”
I watch them go, Carter pushing the wheelchair across the lit asphalt as their voices carry a mix of insurance talk and workplace safety. When they finally disappear around the corner, I notice my hands are shaking.
I hadn’t noticed them shaking before that.
5
George
The accident may have happened because I was thinking about ProMotive’s latest buyout offer instead of watching where I put my hands.
Carter had left the paperwork on my desk that morning—another revised proposal from the corporate auto group that had been circling Torres and Hayes for months. Each offer looks good on paper and amounts to handing over everything my father built.
My dad, Miguel Torres, opened the original Torres Auto Shop when I was five. He taught me everything about engines, about doing honest work for the people who came to him. By the time I joined the Navy at nineteen, the shop was struggling, but he kept it running. He got sick during my fourth year of service and died six months later. Without him, the shop closed, buried under debt.
