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“Big vein. It’s been cooperative. We’ll tap the little, if we need it.” The little one hurts more, so I avoid it when I can. I set the butterfly needle where she can see it, because hiding anything from this child would be an insult. “Ready when you are.”

She merely bobs her head once and watches the needle go in, a veteran of more tubes than most adults will ever fill. She keeps talking through it. “Marco at Nonna’s church has a wobbly tooth. I told him you’d look at it.”

“I’m not a dentist, sweetheart.”

“You’re better. You’re Papa’s wife.” The tube fills, dark and healthy, while she says it. “Doctors count for you and watch your face. But they don’t see you. They see problems.”

My heart aches. “Yeah. Sometimes we do that. We try not to. But after seeing so many people all day, we forget that people are people.”

Her tiny face scrunches up. “That doesn’t make sense.”

I try to think of a way to explain it in a way she’ll understand. But I’m not sure if I understand it either. We shut off that human part of our minds so we don’t get wrapped up in our patients’ lives, but I don’t know who that really benefits. It makes it easier to treat everyone in your life as another problem.

“You’re right. It doesn’t make sense. Doctors should do better than just see people as problems.”

I tape the cotton down, and she hands me Pip so the wren can inspect my work.

Pip approves. Pip has never once failed to approve.

The numbers are at least honest. I have a week’s worth of results in the folder, showing a positive trend. Steady counts, a clean liver panel, and her weight increased by two pounds thanks to Diana’s cooking. No matter what else this setup entails, the medication works.

We have a solid routine going. Pills at seven, the binder updated in my handwriting next to Lupo’s, two record-keepers sharing one goal. He initials my entries at night. I’ve stopped pretending I don’t look for the initials.

In the afternoons, she voluntarily naps, then there’s time in the garden if the weather cooperates. Yesterday, she conducted a bird census of the east wall. Today, we construct a hospital for Pip on a picnic table. Pip has developed a cough only I am qualified to treat. I offered to be a veterinarian for the animal hospital, and that was quickly struck down.

“Pip is people. You said people are people and not problems.”

“You’re absolutely right. Bring her into exam room three.”

So I run a clinic for a stuffed wren at four in the afternoon, and it is somehow the most normal part of my week.

Mid-morning is the supply run. I need butterfly needles and a box of the pediatric bandages Sarah tolerates. Time to invoke the escort clause.

In his car, Nick drives me into the village with the radio on Europop. “You could have sent a man for needles,” he says at the pharmacy door.

“I pick my own supplies. It’s a doctor thing.”

“It’s a control thing.” He holds the door anyway. “I respect it. I count my own ammunition.”

“I… don’t ever want to think about that kind of thing ever again.”

“It is nowhere near the worst thing I’ve said to you. Twitchy about guns?”

“You could say that.”

“Alright, doc. Go do your thing. I’ll be here.” He stands by the sunglasses rack as I fill my basket, then tips an invisible hat to the pharmacist when we leave. The whole town notices us, but no one stares for longer than two blinks. Sartorre men buying gauze seems to be a Tuesday here, and I add that to the list of things I don’t want to know about.

In the car, Nick turns the Europop down. “The kid’s stronger this week. She took the stairs at a run yesterday. Two at a time.”

“You noticed her stair speed?”

“I track everything in the family.” He pulls through the gates. “It’s been a good week, doc. We don’t get many of those.” He parks before I can assemble an answer, which I suspect is why he waited to say it until now.

“I’ll do my best to help her have more good weeks, Nick. I promise.”

His lips wriggle for a beat before he nods and gets out, looking away from me the whole time. If I’m not mistaken, his eyes shone too.

Nick is definitely in the family. Maybe not by blood, but in every way that matters.