I jot the notes, though my hands know it’s useless. I can’t unsee what I’ve seen: his pulse jumping in his throat, lashes quivering under the light, the heat of his skin. Finally, I push the lamp back. “You can sit back, you did great.”
He exhales, almost a laugh. “You sure? Didn’t sound like it a second ago.”
I peel off my gloves, toss them before I do something reckless, and snap the chart shut.
“Nerves are expected... not everyone can focus easily. But it appears your retina’s intact, that’s what matters.”
My voice holds steady, but my body is fire.
“Because of the nature of your injury, I’d like to attempt something called a scleral depression,” I explain, forcing my voice clinical. “It lets me see the far periphery, check for any small holes or tears. If it hurts, say so. I can stop.”
He nods, brave, like they all do. I numb him first, then press the instrument gently against his eye through the lid, moving in careful arcs. At first he’s fine. His jaw tightens, but he stays steady. Then I feelthe shift, the subtle catch in his breath, the tension humming through his body.
I stop immediately, one hand lifting to his shoulder, steadying him the way I’ve done for a hundred anxious patients. “You’re not being difficult if you want to stop,” I say, gently. “It goes against nature to have your eye pushed and rotated. You're lucky it's me and not Dr. Conrad. He prefers to use apaperclipfor this, he says it reachesthe edgeseasier.”
For a second he blinks at me and then bursts out laughing, shocked and helpless. “A—what?! You’re not exactlysellingme on this, doc.”
I arch a brow, lips twitching. “It’s notmy jobto sell it to you. It’s my job to find out if anything’s broken. It’syour jobto decide if we continue or not.”
That does it. His grin shifts, something between surrender and challenge. He exhales, shoulders loosening under my hand. “Alright. I’m ready, I can take it.”
I press again, firmer this time, watching carefully as the edge of his retina rolls into view. Every second of it is intimate, his trust in me, his body taut under my hands, the silent endurance that makes him seem more human than any stage could ever show.
When I’m done, I tell him he can sit up. He scrambles upright at last, blinking hard, eyes red-rimmed and dilated. But when he looks at me, he’s smiling, almost sheepish. “Guess you didn’t break me after all.”
I can’t say the same. I strip off the last pair of gloves, drop them in the bin, and force my voice steady. “All clear today. But blunt trauma can cause delayed tears or detachments. I’ll need to see you again in…” I check the calendar on the computer, calculate. “...two weeks from Monday. Sooner if you notice flashes, new floaters, curtains. Don’t ignore it.”
Before he can answer, the woman who’s been lurking in the corner, the tour manager, judging by her headset and permanent attachment to her phone, speaks up.
“We can arrange care locally. Wherever the band is. There are probably specialists in every city on the route.”
But Obelus,Rafe, shakes his head before the words finish. His voice is calm but final.
“I’ll make the trips back until the good doctor gives me the all clear.” He looks at me, but I look away. Now that the exam is done it’s harder to escape, harder to hide behind tasks with those eyes on me.
The room stills. The manager frowns, about to argue, but the tone in his voice leaves no space for negotiation.
I clear my throat, trying for practical. “There areexcellentspecialists I could refer you to. Closer to wherever you’ll be, I can give you names.”
His eyes meet mine, dark and unwavering. “No. I’m not doingall that paperworkall over again with someone else. We’ll make it work, won’t we?” He glances at the displeased manager, who gives a terse nod.
He sits back in the chair, dilated eyes still glowing under the lights, and repeats with a weight that silences any arguments: “Two weeks, right? I'll seeyouthen.”
In that moment I know he means it. I nod, a little dazzled by the commanding force that appears now the worry is over.
I tuck the chart under my arm and reach into my coat pocket. “There’s a card with the partners’ voicemail numbers, and a 24-hour line if you notice anything new—flashes, floaters, curtains. Call that, don’t wait.” I hand it over, crisp and clinical.
He glances at it, rotates it, looks back up at me. “Isyournumber on here?” He holds it steady between two fingers like a magician about to finish a sleight of hand.
I blink, shake my head. “No. I’m not a partner yet.”
“Well.” His voice is low, steady, leaving no room for misinterpretation. “I didn’t seethem, I sawyou. So write your number down.Please, Dr. Sawadzka.”
Inside, I’m screaming. This feels like a hallucination I’ve manufactured, and yet in all the fantasy scenarios I’ve dreamed up nothing this probable or mundane ever cropped up. Despite how I feel internally, the professional edge in me digs in, scrambling for rules.
“The emergency line is 24 hours.”
He just looks at me. That level stare, the one that’s silenced arenas, now pinning me in a chair I’ve sat in a thousand times, and immediately all my arguments dissolve.
