Page 3 of The Golden Hour

Then Mason winces as he tries to remember the last full conversation he shared with his wife.

Maybe last month.

But it's not his fault; the ED has been busy. It's summer, and people are setting off fireworks, burning their skin off in the sun, and jumping from roofs into their pools. He's been slammed with finishing his last year of residency and choosing a fellowship. It's fine.

Saying that doesn't pull the knife from his gut, though.

"Uh, y-yeah," Mason stutters out a reply. "Yeah, she's been having a rough time, but it's Honey. She's strong."

“First time mothers. Everything is always a crisis. I swear, drama is ingrained into women’s DNA," Dr. Mortimer laughs like he told some hilarious joke.

Charge Nurse Ellen hears it as she walks past, and over her shoulder, she gives Dr. Mortimer a withering look that even causes Mason to shiver.

And the knife in his gut twists even more when he doesn't say anything to the doctor. He opens his mouth to say something, but the words die in his throat.

Dr. Mortimer has a lot of pull in this hospital; he golfs with the CEO every Sunday. Realistically, he could make or break him. And the fact that Mason is trusting him to take care of his precious wife and deliver their baby girl.

He closes his mouth and gives a tight smile. Dr. Mortimer claps him on the back before walking into Molly's room and greets her kindly, like an old grandfather.

Mason falls back into the flow of the ER, treating an STI on some frat kid from Temple.

“Doc, sex just doesn’t feel as good with condoms.”

“Neither do crabs, but here we are,” Mason replies dryly, handing him a prescription before sending him on his way with a nurse shoving a fistful of condoms into his hand.

Then there is a man with a light bulb lodged where no light bulb should ever be. Mason shudders throughout the examination. Those will never stop horrifying him.

After that comes a little boy with a broken elbow from a hockey game.

The children are the hardest patients. Not necessarily because of the kids themselves, though. Mostly because of their anxious parents, who consult Dr. Google before questioning Mason like he didn’t spend the better part of a decade studying to stand here.

Without even thinking about it, Mason softens around children.

“Alright, Tommy. Pick a color,” Mason says, showing the boy the options for the wrap around his splint. “Any color.”

“Can I have blue?” Tommy asks. “It’s my team’s color.”

“You got it, kiddo.” Mason slides his chair closer and begins securing the splint. “Your team any good?”

“We’re the best,” he chirps, lifting his chin in pride. Mason smiles.

“I’ll bet. With a break like this,” Mason peers at him and grins. “You’re the bruiser, aren’t you?”

Tommy nods eagerly, puffing out his chest as much as any twelve year old can. “Yeah. I love kicking ass.”

“Tommy!” his mother exclaims from where she sits beside him on the exam bed. The amused smile she’s trying to hide weakens the scolding.

“Sorry, ma,” Tommy apologizes, before winking at Mason.

Mason chuckles.

Yeah, the kids were always the most fun.

Twenty minutes later, Tommy is sent on his way with an orthopedic referral and strict instructions to use his injured arm as little as possible.

“Thanks, Doc!” he chirps.

“Thank you, Dr. Carpenter,” Tommy’s mother says, guiding Tommy toward the front desk to be discharged.