My shift started before the vet’s office opened, so Hatchet promised to text me photos of the puppy every hour after he picked her up.
I showed my favorite nurse, Hadley, a selfie he sent at lunch with the pup wearing a cone around her neck, snuggled on his pillow with her muzzle touching his neck.
“Isn’t she adorable? What should I name her?”
Hadley ripped the phone from my hand. “I’m sorry, but I can’t see the puppy through the insanely hot man attached to her. Who is that and is he single?”
I laughed. “Hatchet, and yes, he is perpetually single and with a woman at all times.”
“Where do I sign up?”
“He’s a frequent flier. The next time he crashes his bike, I’ll introduce you.”
“The man has a motorcycle and a beard, and you aren’t trying to get both between your legs? Lock that down, girl.”
I scoffed. “No one’ll ever lock that man down.”
“In that case, why can’t you just take him for a joy ride?”
I snatched my phone back. “Because that would be a terrible idea. I want a real relationship, not a one-night stand. Besides, he’s not my type.”
“Girl, maybe that’s a good thing. ‘Rich, narcissistic asshole’ doesn’t exactly seem to be working out for you.”
I nodded in agreement and read another text from Hatchet. “Oh, no,” I said, immediately calling him. He answered on the first ring.
“You’re not naming her Wobbles.”
Hatchet chuckled. “How about Stumpy?”
“You’re going to be stumpy if you name my puppy something stupid.”
“Ourpuppy,” he reminded. “How about Tripod?”
“Absolutely not. We’ll talk about it tonight.”
“Fine. Pogo says she loves you.”
“Hatchet,” I warned. “If you call her another ridiculous name, I will amputate something on you, and it won’t be a leg.”
“Fine,” he said, laughter still coloring his tone. “Text me when you leave the hospital. I’ll order a pizza. We’ll name her after you’ve had a few beers.”
“When has alcohol ever made me more agreeable?” I asked.
“Valid point,” he conceded.
The rest of the day pummeled me, bureaucracy and insurance denials slowing down my work in ways I couldn’t explain to the cranky, sleep-deprived parents in the Pediatric wing of the hospital.
“I hear you did a good job in Peds today,” Dr. Patel commented as I walked out of the hospital.
I scoffed. “If by ‘good job,’ you mean watching a six-year-old suffer because her insurance doesn’t cover shit, then yeah, I guess.”
Dr. Patel clasped a hand around my shoulder. “That’s the American health system. You push, they push back. You win some, you lose some. Dr. Keller said you didn’t stop fighting for your patient today. You worked every angle. You’re a good doctor.”
I offered a grim smile. “How do you come in every day knowing that your hands are tied? That there’s a way to help your patient, butyou’re not allowed to do it because it’s too expensive and some executive in a high-rise has decided that their lives aren’t worth shit?”
She shrugged. “The lives you change, the people you save, make it worth it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The thick July humidity coated my skin the second I stepped out of the hospital. I settled in my truck and leaned my forehead against the steering wheel before pulling out my phone.
