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She shakes her head. “Well, like Lucy, you’ve got a job to do. You’re needed in room seven. Labs are back.” She turns and walks away.
“I’ll be right there,” I call after her before gingerly setting my work on the desk. Earlier, I haphazardly put it down and watched as the hook fell and all my work came unraveled. That was a bigger bummer than I’d anticipated.
I get up out of my chair, grab my stethoscope and place it around my neck. Then I walk out of the office, picking at some green yarn fibers that had attached themselves to my white coat. A side effect of the trade, I guess.
Walking by the nurses’ station, I see Lucy not crocheting, but working on the computer in front of her. Her scrubs are a royal-blue color today, and she’s got her hair pulled back with a thick headband with matching snowflakes printed on it.
“Price,” I say her name, by way of greeting.
“Dr. Shackwell,” she says, her fingers forming a subtle V shape near her eyes, which she then directs at me—the universal signal for I’m watching you.
I give her a bring it on head nod.
I smile to myself before walking into room number seven.
“WE CAN’T JUDGE THESE OURSELVES,” Lucy says as we stand in the nurses’ station, both of our works sitting on the desktop.
My perfectly chained green row is lying next to her gray one. But Lucy added two more rows to hers, the overachiever.
“Should we ask Evie?” she says, a joking smile on her face.
“Ask me what?” Evie says, and we both turn to see her walking up behind us.
Lucy looks to me, and I give her a shrug that says, Why not.
She turns to Evie. “In your opinion, which one of these is better?”
Evie eyes our work, a pinched look on her face. “I have no idea; they both look like crap.”
I feel my hackles rise. I’m oddly defensive of my crocheted row of chains. What a rusty crochet hook Evie is.
Great. I’m making Lucy-esque insults with a crochet theme. Who even am I?
“But don’t you think the gray one looks like the beginning of something?” Lucy asks, pointing to her work.
“Hey,” I say to her. “No trying to sway the judge.”
Evie looks at me and then at Lucy. “What’s wrong with you two?”
Before I can say anything, she stomps off, shaking her head and mumbling to herself as she goes.
“I think it’s time to bring out the fake mouse,” Lucy says, scowling in Evie’s direction.
“So, what now? Are we going to have to flip a coin again?” I ask.
Lucy sighs, looking to me. “No, I know someone who’ll do it,” she says like she’s not happy about the idea.
“Who?”
“Morgan,” she says.
“Your friend?”
“Yes. The person who started all this.” She waves a hand at our crocheting efforts. “It’ll take me a minute. Meet me in the break room in thirty.”
Thirty minutes later we have our crochet goods on the table, and Lucy’s friend Morgan—a tiny thing with shoulder-length brown hair—is bent over inspecting them.
“I can’t believe she’s doing this in person,” I whisper to Lucy. We’re standing side by side, just behind our judge. I’d figured we’d just send her pictures.
