That low shift in my chest. Something tugging behind my ribs.
I hate it.
“I’m Dr. Hale,” I say, voice flatter than I mean it to be. “Simon. I’ll be double-checking everything Levi started.”
She nods, eyes dropping to the hem of her hoodie.
“Wren,” she says softly. Her voice is husky—rasped at the edges. “Nice to meet you.”
Not even a flinch. Not a flicker of recognition at my abrupt tone.
“Still lightheaded?”
She lifts one shoulder. “A little. I think I’m just… tired.”
I glance at her chart again. Heart rate elevated. Temp slightly low. Respirations are shallow but steady.
“You’re allowed to be tired after a house fire,” I mutter, grabbing the pulse oximeter and slipping it onto her finger.
She watches me. Not the way people usually do—not with fear or deference. She just… observes. I don’t like being observed.
“Still dizzy?”
“Less than before.”
“Any pain in your chest?”
“No.”
I pick up my stethoscope and gesture for her to shift forward. She moves, careful, like her limbs haven’t quite caught up with the adrenaline crash.
“Deep breath in.”
She obeys.
Her back is warm through the hoodie. I focus on the sounds: clear breath. No rales. No stridor. No wheeze.
Again. And again. Steady.
“You’re okay,” I say. “No damage to the lungs. Oxygenations normal. But you inhaled enough smoke to irritate the airway. It could take a few days to feel fully normal.”
She exhales. “Thank you.”
I step back, snapping the chart closed.
“I want you back here in a week. Earlier if you get a fever, cough that worsens, or shortness of breath.”
Her eyes widen slightly. “I’m okay to leave?”
I nod. “You’re not a critical case. Just barefoot, mildly shocked, and smelling like campfire.”
That gets a small smile. “Not my best day.”
I should walk out. Let her get dressed. Move on to the next patient. But my feet don’t move.
“Do you have someone to stay with?” I ask. “Someone nearby?”
“Um… no. It’s just me and my cat.”
