Page 101 of The Golden Hour

He needs to set a better example.

“I know you didn’t,” Mason shakes his head. “But we need to always remember that. They’re our patients, not a chart or a number or an exciting procedure or a… rush.”

Lowell blinks and nods in understanding.

Dr. Weaver pokes her head into the room, and Mason barely resists the urge to snarl at her to leave him alone as he tosses his PPE in the bin.

Weaver has been up his ass all day, ever since he walked into the building.

And she’s been uncharacteristically nice.

In fact, anyone not dressed in scrubs has greeted Mason with wide smiles, excessively kind words, and careful questions that sound more like liability management than concern.

HR gave Honey a basket with a bottle of wine—that she cannot drink because she’s breastfeeding—and a bunch of St. Mary’s branded shit in it, including a little onesie that Mason would rather eat than ever put on his daughter.

“We want you to know that we have terminated Dr. Felicia Lewis’ employment here,” Kelly informed him in their meeting that morning.

Mason gritted his teeth.

They spoke to him like they didn’t purposefully set up that scene when they left the hospital two weeks ago.

“So, you’ll have no more worries about that issue,” Kelly continued. “How is your wife doing, by the way? How is she adjusting?”

The words were nice, and he answered with a simple and muttered fine, until the questions became more intrusive.

“How is her mental health?” she asked, her tone going for casual and failing. “I’m sure you know this as a doctor, but women suffering from PPD can be in a very difficult position. It can really spin our thoughts and make the irrational seem rational. We just want to make sure Honey is taking care of herself, and we would be happy to offer our psychiatric services if⁠⁠—”

The leash on his rage snapped.

The thinly veiled words just under the false pretense of concern.

Bullshit. All bullshit.

“My wife is not a patient of St. Mary’s anymore, and she does not wish to be so moving forward,” Mason hissed, cutting off Kelly’s words. “You are also not a physician, so I would appreciate it if you did not speak about my wife’s care or needs. Her physician will do so. That is the end of this conversation.”

Kelly’s mouth opened, but Mason just walked out of the room without another word, and without a second of regret. In fact, he felt rather charged afterward that he finally—finally—stood up for his wife.

“Carpenter,” Weaver says now with a smile that looks almost painful. It sends a chill up Mason’s spine. “I can inform the family if you need me to⁠⁠—”

“He was my patient,” Mason says, turning away from her. “I will do it.”

“It’s your first day back. Let me⁠⁠—”

“I said I’ll do it,” Mason snaps, turning to Lowell. “Follow me.”

“Me?” Lowell blinks, pointing at himself.

Mason rolls his eyes, but doesn’t answer, just walks out of the trauma room toward the private family rooms.

“Have you ever informed a patient’s family about their death?”

“Yes,” Lowell says, his face twisting in discomfort.

“School your face. Your discomfort is nothing in comparison to the news they are about to receive,” Mason says firmly.

Lowell’s ears go red, chagrined once more.

“I’m going to demonstrate the proper way to do it.”