“Yeah. Yes. Exactly.” A pause. “Hey. You’re the one who did the blood pressure thing, right? Kicked me out?”
“That was me.”
I handed the phone back to Renata.
I stood at the nurses’ station for one second longer than the situation required. Then I went back to 407.
SCORCH WAS ON HIS FEETwith his phone out. He heard me come in and turned. Read my expression before I said anything.
“That’ll be Cricket,” he said.
“Flat tire on the 610. Two hours minimum.”
I sat down in the chair. He worked through contacts one by one, not frustrated, just fast. Names I didn’t know, places I couldn’t place. He had options.
He stopped.
“You don’t have to stay,” he said.
“I’m on shift.”
“Not in this room.”
The word came out of my mouth before I decided to make it a plan.
“I’ll drive you,” I said.
He turned.
The heat that had been sitting low in my belly since I came on shift was doing what it always did when he was close — present and unhelpful and not remotely interested in my professional assessment of the situation. I kept my hands on the clipboard.
“Bandera’s three hours,” he said.
“I know how far Bandera is.”
“You’re coming off shift.”
“I know what shift I’m coming off.”
He studied me. Not the charm read — the other kind. Measured. Taking his time.
“I have a spare room,” I said. “One night. You get a proper rest, you don’t put yourself in a three-hour drive on discharge day, and you call Cricket in the morning when you have a plan.”
He put his phone down.
“I’m not a liability,” he said.
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You said it the other way.”
“One night only,” I said. “Then you’re on your own.”
He held my gaze for one more beat. Then he picked up his keys, and the grin came back, wide and sure, like the Cheshire Cat who already knew where the canary was.
“Lead the way, sweetheart,” he said.
My pulse jumped once in the base of my throat and I picked up my badge.
