“I’m going to sweat.”
“Yes. You are.”
“At the rally.”
“Which you won’t be riding in for another ten days.” I got there before he could. “You knew I was going to say it.”
“Follow-up in seven days,” he said. “Can I use a Bandera clinic or does it have to be Houston?”
“Any board-certified provider who can review a post-op note and examine the wound in person. I’ll write a clinic in Bandera on your paperwork.”
“Signs of infection.” He read them straight back. “Redness, warmth, swelling, discharge, fever over a hundred and one. Which one shows up first?”
“Warmth before visible redness, usually. You’ll feel it under the dressing before you see it.”
“And I call the number on the sheet.”
“Before you decide it’s nothing.”
He set the sheet down. “You think I’m going to decide it’s nothing.”
“I think you have a very high threshold for what qualifies as a medical problem.”
His mouth pulled toward a smile that didn’t quite get there. “You’re not wrong.” He picked up the sheet again. “No riding for ten days.”
“You heard me.”
“How about seven?”
“Ten days, final answer.”
“Eight and a half.”
“It’s not a negotiation. Ten days.” I kept my voice level. “If you tear that repair, it’s not ten days — it’s Dr. Patel’s schedule plus whatever follow-up he determines is appropriate, and that timeline I cannot give you.”
A beat.
“All right. Ten days,” he said.
I wrote the clinic name and address in the contact section, initialed the wound care protocol, dated the bottom. I slid it across. He signed it. I signed the witness line. Neither of us said anything. I picked up the chart.
The form was the same one I’d signed off on two hundred times. It had never taken that long.
I WAS REACHING FORthe phone at the nurses’ station when it rang. Renata picked up first, held the receiver toward me.
“Says he’s the ride for 407,” she said.
I took it.
“This is Whitley Stahl, discharge nurse.”
“Hey — hi. Cricket. Hayes Reed.” His voice came fast, young and certain of itself. “I’m Scorch’s ride. I’m calling ahead because there’s been a situation with the truck.”
I set my pen down. “What kind of situation?”
“Flat tire. The prospect’s truck, the one I borrowed because my bike’s currently in pieces. Flat tire on the 610. We’re waiting on roadside. I’m thinking minimum two hours, probably more, and I wanted to call the floor first because if I call him directly he’s going to want to solve it himself and honestly someone else needs to handle his situation this one time.”
“I’ll tell him. Two hours minimum, call when you have a better estimate.”
