Chapter 4
Mia
The last patient file closes with a satisfying click as I update the final notes for the day. My first shift as an official Sierra Mercy fellow is ending, and I've survived… barely. My feet ache, my brain feels like it's been wrung out like a sponge, and somewhere between the third and fourth case presentation, I realized I'd forgotten to eat lunch. But there's one more stop I need to make before I can drag my exhausted body home.
Cheryl's room beckons from the end of the hall. I shouldn't be doing this. Dr. Walker made it painfully clear that getting personally involved with patients isn't part of the fellowship program. But something about the former dancer pulls at me. Maybe because she reminds me of the fierce independence Dad showed during his illness, right up until he couldn't anymore.
I knock softly before pushing the door open wider. "Knock knock. Is this a bad time?"
She looks up from her book, eyes brightening when she sees me. "Birdie. I was wondering if you'd fly back this way." She quickly tucks a bookmark between the pages, but not before Icatch a glimpse of the cover—a shirtless man with abs you could grate cheese on, clutching a swooning woman in a period dress.
"Nice reading material," I say, grinning as I step into the room.
"Don't judge," she says, not a hint of embarrassment in her voice. "When your body betrays you, sometimes you need to remember what it feels like to be alive. And trust me, Nathaniel here—" she pats the cover, "—is very life-affirming."
I laugh, pulling the visitor's chair closer to her bed. "How are you feeling? Really?"
"The tremors are worse," she admits, holding out a hand that quivers visibly in the air between us. "But my spirits are better now that fresh minds are on the case. Especially yours."
"I haven't solved anything yet," I remind her, guilt twisting slightly at the hope in her voice.
"You will." Her certainty is almost unnerving. "You see more than test results. You see me."
Taking her hand, I note the cool, paper-thin quality of her skin. "We're going to figure this out," I promise, then immediately regret making a promise I might not be able to keep.
"That handsome boss of yours seemed quite irritated by our little chat this morning," Cheryl says, her expression shifting to something mischievous. "He kept glaring at you like you'd stolen his favorite toy."
Heat creeps up my neck. "Dr. Walker isn't a fan of my approach to, well, anything."
"Dr. Walker," she mimics my formal tone. "Is hot as hell when he's annoyed." She raises an eyebrow when I choke slightly. "What? I'm old, not blind. Those dark eyes, that jaw, those hands..." She sighs dramatically. "If I were thirty years younger, I'd climb him like a tree."
"Cheryl." I try to sound scandalized, but a laugh escapes instead.
"You've noticed too." It's not a question. Her eyes sparkle with an almost predatory amusement. "Of course you have. The air practically crackled when the two of you were in the same room."
"That was the sound of him mentally drafting my termination notice," I mutter.
She shakes her head, a knowing smile playing at her lips. "You know what they say about the grumpy ones, don't you?"
I shouldn't ask. I really shouldn't. "What do they say?"
Her smile widens to something wicked. "They're always the best in bed. All that control, all that intensity... when it finally breaks?" She makes a small explosive gesture with her fingers. "Volcanic."
My face must be the color of my hair by now. "I think we should discuss your medication schedule," I say, desperately reaching for professionalism like a life raft.
We talk for another ten minutes about her symptoms, the timeline of progression, any patterns she's noticed. I'm scribbling notes, my mind already assembling and discarding diagnostic possibilities, when she suddenly looks past me toward the door.
"Speak of the devil," she murmurs.
I turn, and my heart performs an Olympic-level gymnastic routine inside my chest. Dr. Sebastian Walker fills the doorway like he was designed specifically to make hospital architecture seem inadequate. His white coat is gone, leaving him in his charcoal button-down with the sleeves rolled to expose those forearms that shouldn't be as distracting as they are. He looks tired, a slight shadow deepening the hollows beneath his cheekbones, but no less intimidating.
"Dr. Phillips," he practically growls. "A word?"
Cheryl squeezes my hand. "Run along, Birdie. But remember what I said."
I stand, smoothing my wrinkled clothes as if that will somehow make me more presentable. "I'll check on you tomorrow," I promise her.
"I'm counting on it," she replies, that knowing glint still in her eye.
