“Fine.” I look at the refrigerated display in front of us. The space where his favorite flavor would be is empty. I reach for the yogurt with jam in my cart. “You?”
His gaze follows my hand as he clears his throat. “Good. Yeah. Good.”
I place the yogurt in his cart and smile. When I look up, his eyes are on the yogurt, but his cheeks round the edges of his expression into something warm and open. I try to think of the last time he smiled this way at something I did for him. Or even the last time I did anything, even if simple like this, for him. The only thing that comes to mind is those tickets I gifted him three Christmases ago.Does it even count if we never went to those places?
The silence stretches, thin and careful. This is what happens when two people know so much about each other yet don’t know what to do with it. I reach for butter; I don’t even use butter.
“It was Wednesday last night,” he rushes out, as if he needs to say it before his brain catches up. “I missed you.”
I look up. “Are you liking the book?”
“Not as much as I was likingThe Tell-Tale Brain.” He winces. “It’s still a good read, though. It’s just…”
It wasn’t the same without memy brain supplies unhelpfully. I swallow. Something tight pulls behind my sternum. “I’m sorry I didn’t join you.” I’m saying what I should, but, in truth, I’m hiding from him.
Because I did join him. I just didn’t pull the blinds up. Didn’t let him see me sitting there with my phone light on reading the same pages inHow Buildings Learnand wondering if the words spoke to him the way they spoke to me.
“It’s okay.” He swipes the butter off my cart and puts it in his. “I figured you were busy.”
“I was,” I say. True enough. “Why did you steal my butter?”
He gives me a lopsided smile, hitching one shoulder, and his hair moves with the gesture. “You never use butter. But I’m a call away if you need it.”
We stand there, the moment loaded and unsaid, when the store’s PA crackles to life.
“Attention shoppers—if there is a medical professional on-site, please report immediately to aisle twelve. Medical emergency. Aisle twelve.”
My body moves before my mind finishes processing. Leaving the cart behind, I glance above the shelves at the store to find aisle twelve and sprint that way. Nate’s footsteps are close behind.
Aisle twelve is chaos. A small crowd. Someone kneeling, someone crying. On the floor, sprawled awkwardly on his side, is Mr. Matthews.
For half a second—just one—my chest locks, and I freeze. I’ve never had to help outside of a shift before. I breathe in and let everything click into place.
“I’m a doctor.” I step forward. “Please, move aside so I can examine him,” I say, kneeling. “Sir,” I state, finding his eyes. “Mr. Matthews. Can you hear me?” He doesn’t answer. I scan fast. Pale. Diaphoretic. Breathing shallow but present. “Nate,” I say without looking up, “call 911. Tell them suspected acutestroke. Patient has been treated for early-stage cerebellar infarct. Presented symptoms earlier in the day with a standard CT. Give them this address.”
He’s already dialing.
I reposition Mr. Matthews carefully, rolling him onto his back and elevating his head just enough to protect his airway. No unnecessary movement. No heroics.
“Mr. Matthews,” I say, close to his ear, steady and clear, “it’s Dr. Hollis. You’re in a grocery store. Please squeeze my hands.”
Nothing on the right. A weak response on the left. My pulse picks up, but my hands don’t shake. “Do you know what time he collapsed?” I ask the woman hovering near his head.
“Just now.” She sobs. “Minutes ago. He was talking and then?—”
I glance at my watch and lock it in. Time matters. I shine my phone light briefly into his open eyes—unequal pupils. My stomach drops, but my hands stay precise.
A man nearby blurts, “He has high blood pressure—takes something for it. Talks about it all the time.”
“Lisinopril,” I say, nodding. “I’m his neurologist. I know his history.”
The sound of the sirens bleed into the store, merciful and loud.
When the paramedics rush in, I run a FAST assessment for the responders. Face. Arms. Speech. Time. No wasted words. They load him onto the stretcher. The crowd exhales as one.
I stay kneeling a second, my pulse finally catching up with me. When I stand, I fumble briefly for my keys.
“Nate.” I step close, nearly chest to chest. “He’s my patient. I’m riding with him. Can you drive my car to the hospital and leave my keys at reception?”
