Page 15 of The Golden Hour

“Hi, I’m Dr. Carpenter. This is a nasty cut,” he grins easily. “Bar fight?”

He quickly scans Dana’s chart, seeing that she’s eighteen and has no allergies or general health issues. Then he gently takes her chin and tilts the cut toward the light.

“Cabinet,” she answers, her voice clipped.

Mason hisses sympathetically. “Don’t worry, we’ll get this fixed up quick.”

Dana doesn’t look at him, just nods and sighs deeply like she’s annoyed. Mason frowns and grabs a piece of sterile gauze to clean the area.

After a few moments of silence, he gently breaks it.

“You know, I really admire your mother⁠⁠—”

“Yes, everyone tells me all the time how impressive and wonderful she is,” Dana says, her voice completely flat.

Mason pauses for half a second, his gloved fingers stilling over the tray.

“She is,” Mason says, more than a little defensiveness in his tone. “Your mother is one of the best doctors I’ve ever seen. It’s a privilege to work under her.”

Dana huffs a laugh. “Yeah, I bet.”

Mason frowns, but doesn’t say anything as he preps the area. The laceration above her eyebrow isn’t large or jagged. Simple stitches should fix it right up. Probably won’t even scar. Even though it feels remedial compared to performing a cric, he falls into the routine.

The silence is uncomfortably heavy, and as Mason works, he feels the need to fill it, like he normally does with patients. When in doubt, people always like talking about themselves.

“Are you in college?” he asks.

“Yep.”

“Pre-Med?”

She scoffs. “Fuck. No.”

Mason blinks at the intensity in her tone.

“Not your thing?”

“Being married to my job?” Dana asks, eyes still fixed on the wall over his right shoulder. “No.”

Mason’s gut clenches at that, and he swallows hard to clear the tight sensation in his throat. He feels the jab even though it isn’t directed toward him.

Dana doesn’t even flinch when he injects the anesthetic. She just keeps her gaze on the wall, jaw tight, hands twisted in her lap.

“She’s dedicated,” Mason says, though the words are in defense of Dr. Weaver. They feel more like a defense of himself. “I think there’s a difference.”

“Is there?” Dana asks, eyebrow raised. “You’ve known her what—all of three years? And I’m sure you know her better than I do.”

Mason clenches his jaw as he starts to stitch her skin together.

“That’s not sarcasm,” Dana says quietly after a few minutes. “I’m being serious. You probably do know her better than I do.”

The needle slides through the skin easily. Mason feels queasy in a way he hasn’t since first year of med school. He keeps his voice even, his hands moving, his eyes unseeing.

“Your mother loves you.”

“Yeah…” Dana smiles at that, but there’s no humor or warmth in it. “That’s what everyone says too.”

“She does,” he insists, before attempting to joke with her. “She even wanted the best to treat you. That’s why she grabbed me.”