Page 82 of Clinically Awkward

“I’m not.” She broke off, dissolving into giggles. “Okay, I’m laughing. I’m sorry. It’s just. The look on your face.”

“I’ve been abandoned.”

“You have.”

“By everyone.”

“Yep.”

“I’m going to die here.”

“Probably.”

I looked down at the files in my hands. Red tabs. Yellow tabs. Green tabs. Critical. Follow-ups. Routine. I didn’t even know where to start. “This is fine,” I said.

“It’s not fine.”

“Everything is fine.”

“Quinton—”

“I’m a doctor. I can handle this. I’ve handled worse. I’ve handled—” The door burst open. I looked up, hope surging. They came back! They realized they were being terrible friends, and they came back.

But it wasn’t my friends.

It was a patient. An elderly woman with a cane and a very determined expression. “Are you Dr. Wesley?” she demanded.

“I—yes?”

“Good. I need you to look at my knee. It’s been clicking.”

“Clicking.”

“Yes, very concerning. I think it might be arthritis. Or cancer. Probably cancer.”

“Ma’am—”

“I’ve been waiting three weeks for this appointment. Three weeks. I’m not leaving until someone looks at my knee.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Looked at Vivian. She was grinning. Grinning.

“Exam room two,” she said cheerfully. “I’ll get you set up.”

The woman nodded and shuffled past me, muttering about the state of healthcare in America as Vivian followed, pausing just long enough to pat my shoulder. “Good luck,” she said.

“Vivian—”

“You’ve got this.”

“I don’t.”

“Red tabs first,” she said. “Then yellow. Then green. And try not to kill anyone.”

“That’s what Julien said.”

“He’s a smart man.” And then she disappeared down the hallway, leaving me standing alone in the lobby with a stack of patient files and the growing realization that I was completely, utterly screwed.

This is fine. Everything is fine. I’m a doctor. I can handle this. I took a breath. Looked down at the files. Pulled the first red tab. Mrs. Johnson. Follow-up post-op. Possible infection. Great. Fantastic. Nothing I can’t handle.