That was a threat. I hated both.
With a sigh, I started over and made the list detailed enough to pass inspection. The eggs were legitimately good—I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until I started eating.
Ms. Patricia perched at the kitchen island with her coffee, watching me over the rim. “Cole, dear. You seem stressed. Tell Ms. Patricia what’s goin’ on.”
“I’m fine, Ms. P.”
“So, we lie now?” She gave me the side-eye and her classic head tilt. “You’ve been grumpy and quiet for days. I’m not just the housekeeper. I notice things.”
I cleaned my plate and didn’t bother answering because Ms. Patricia could spot a lie from the driveway.
“Is it a woman?”
My heart lurched. “It’s never a woman.”
“Mmmmm…” She tilted her head, giving me the look she reserved for when she knew I was hiding something. “You’ve got a look that calls you a liar.”
“I do not have a look,” I said a little too quickly. After a beat, asked, “What look?”
“Men get a kind of look when they’re thinking about someone special.” She smiled, took a sip, watched me. “Though sometimes that look means they’re about to do something I wouldn’t approve of.”
“Well, I am a man, so…” I stood to take my empty plate to the sink. “I need to get ready. Full day.”
“Will you have dinner at home tonight?”
“Don’t know. Depends on how the day goes, but you know me—whatever you leave, I’ll eat.”
She picked up the notepad and checked my list. “Much better. Not great, but better.” She folded it and dropped it in her purse. “Cole?”
She waited until I turned to face her.
“Whatever’s bothering you at that hospital—don’t let them make you question yourself. You worked hard to get here. Fight to stay here.”
I didn’t have a good reply. I gave her a nod and headed out, grateful for the advice even if I wasn’t sure how to use it.
The morning rhythm was already in full swing when I stepped through the doors at RMC. Residents clustered by the coffee station, hands wrapped around paper cups, someone’spager shrieking down the corridor and a low-grade chaos that buzzed beneath it all. I offered a few nods but didn’t slow down.
My office was utilitarian, nothing more. Desk, chair, computer, a set of medical texts filling a shelf for appearances’ sake. I hadn’t cracked them open in years—not since every answer I needed was a click away. No photos, no mementos. Just a spot to read charts, type notes, and occasionally dodge an administrator if the day called for it.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. A quick glance told me I had a text.
Dr. Webb:
My office when you get in.
I stared at the message. Webb was seasoned and level-headed. We’d worked side by side for years with never a problem, but if he wanted to see me face-to-face, it wasn’t a social call.
I stood and headed upstairs.
Webb’s office was a few floors above mine, housed among the frosted-glass doors that dotted the administrative suites. Corner spot, naturally. Windows from floor to ceiling, sunlight pouring in and bouncing off his desk—a slab of mahogany so polished you could check your tie in it. Leather guest chairs, diplomas on the wall in expensive frames. A family photo was strategically placed on the credenza: Webb, his wife, and two college-aged kids, all beaming on some sandy beach.
I knocked, stepping inside when he called my name.
“Cole. Have a seat.”
He motioned to the chair across from him. Webb was in shape, the kind of lean that came from swimming laps and riding the Peloton before most people hit snooze. He still had a full head of hair but wore reading glasses on a chain around his neck.He’d gone from the OR to admin without anyone calling him soft. People still listened to and respected him.
“Morning, Dr. Webb,” I said, taking a seat.
