The fellows arrange themselves around her bed, Dr. Langston immediately reaching for her chart, Dr. El-Sayed examining the monitors, Dr. Kim hovering uncertainly at the foot of the bed. Dr. Phillips, however, moves directly to Cheryl's side and does something unexpected.
She crouches slightly, bringing herself to eye level with the seated patient. "Those photos… are you a dancer?"
Cheryl's eyes widen slightly in surprise, then warm with interest. "Was. For nearly fifty years."
"Ballet?" Dr. Phillips asks, nodding toward a specific photo.
"And contemporary. I taught both until about six months ago." Cheryl's hand moves unconsciously toward the photo. "Had my own studio for thirty years."
"That explains your posture," Dr. Phillips says with a smile. "Even hospital beds can't undo that kind of muscle memory."
Cheryl laughs softly, a sound I've rarely heard in the past two weeks. "You have a good eye, Dr. Phillips."
"Mia, please." She gestures toward the photo. "And that position? Is it from Swan Lake?"
I watch this exchange with growing irritation that I refuse to label as jealousy. In less than thirty seconds, Dr. Phillips has established a rapport that took me days to build. She's completely bypassed the professional distance that's supposed to ensure objective clinical judgment, diving straight into personal connection like it's a viable diagnostic tool.
The worst part is that it seems to be working. Cheryl's entire demeanor has shifted—she's more animated, more forthcoming as she describes when certain symptoms began in relation to her dance schedule.
"The tremors started during a rehearsal," she tells Dr. Phillips. "I thought it was just fatigue at first. I'd been demonstrating the same sequence for hours. But then I couldn't hold the final pose..."
Dr. Phillips nods, her expression thoughtful. "And the numbness in your feet that would have affected your balance first, wouldn't it? Before you even recognized it as numbness?"
Cheryl's eyes sharpen with realization. "Yes. Yes, exactly. I kept losing my spot during turns. I blamed it on age, but..."
I clear my throat, interrupting what's becoming a far too intimate conversation. "Dr. Phillips, perhaps we could focus on the medical history rather than dance recitals."
Her eyes meet mine, not defensive but almost... amused? "The medical historyisin the dance, Dr. Walker. The progression of symptoms correlates directly with her performance abilities."
Something about the gentle correction, delivered without apology, makes me tighten my grip on the tablet I'm holding. She's right, of course, which only irritates me more.
Dr. Langston jumps in, clearly sensing an opportunity to impress. "Ms. DuBois, have you been tested for heavy metal toxicity? Dance studios in older buildings often have lead paint or—"
"Tested and cleared," I interrupt. "As noted in her file."
Cheryl's attention returns to Dr. Phillips, like a flower turning toward the sun. "You understand dancers, Birdie. Most doctors just see the body as a machine that's failing, not as an instrument that's been played for decades."
Birdie. She's already given her a nickname. It took Cheryl nearly a week to start calling me anything other thanthat stern doctor.
"We should continue our rounds," I say abruptly. "Dr. Phillips, Dr. Langston, I expect preliminary differential diagnoses from each of you by this afternoon."
As the fellows file out, Dr. Phillips lingers for a moment longer, promising Cheryl she'll return with more questions later. The easy way she touches the older woman's hand in parting—a simple human gesture that somehow manages to conveygenuine care without crossing professional boundaries—sends an unwelcome pulse of... something ...through my chest.
In the hallway, I watch as she catches up with the others. There’s grace in her movements. In the way her hands punctuate her thoughts as she discusses something with Dr. Kim, the curl that keeps escaping her braid to brush against her cheek. There's an immediacy to her presence that draws the eye, that makes the air around her seem more vibrant somehow.
Trouble. That's what she is.
I repeat it to myself as we move toward our next patient, trying to ignore the pull I feel toward her. Trying to remember all the reasons why Dr. Mia Phillips represents everything I need to avoid—spontaneity, emotional connection, and most of all, rule-breaking, chaos.
Definitely trouble.
Trouble, with her wild hair and wilder ideas.
Trouble, who saved a man's life this morning through sheer stubborn defiance of protocol.
Trouble, who somehow got Cheryl DuBois to smile and genuine smile for the first time in two weeks.
Trouble I absolutely cannot afford.
