REID
Dr. Whitcomb cornered me during morning rounds three days later.
“You look worse,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Noah sat in bed while a resident tested the strength in his right arm. He watched us from across the room, which meant I could not answer honestly.
Dr. Whitcomb lowered her voice.
“When did you last sleep for more than three hours?”
“I don’t know.”
“When did you last spend a full night at home?”
“I go home.”
“At what hour?”
“Late.”
“And return?”
“Early.”
She folded her arms.
I recognized the posture from every meeting in which she intended to wait longer than I did.
“I’m fine.”
Noah spoke from the bed.
“He says that when he’s not.”
I looked at him.
The resident smiled.
Dr. Whitcomb raised an eyebrow. “Interesting.”
Noah’s expression remained grave, though a hint of amusement touched his mouth.
“You’ve known me for less than two weeks,” I said.
“You say it a lot.”
The resident finished the examination and left.
Dr. Whitcomb stepped closer to the bed.
“Today is a difficult day, Noah.”
