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“Yes.”

“Does she know you’re not whoever she meant to text?”

“No.”

He pauses with a pretzel halfway to his mouth. “Dalton.”

She eventually does figure out that I’m not whoever this Evan fellow is that she meant to text. But do I stop texting? No.

I tell myself this is harmless.

Maggie: Explain trunks before I start assigning them personalities.

I answer.

Me: Upper trunk: C5-C6. Middle: C7. Lower: C8-T1.

Maggie: Upper trunk feels like it owns a standing desk. Middle trunk is just trying to get through the day. Lower trunk has debt.

I do smile then.

Not much, but enough that Marcus catches it and points a pretzel at me. “There it is.”

“Eat your food.”

“These are pretzels from a drawer. This isn’t food. This is sodium with corners.”

I sign the last order.

The resident from the case appears in the doorway. “Dr. Price? Family’s been updated. ICU has accepted transfer.”

“Good. Check the drain output every fifteen for the first hour. Call me if pressure trends down or if urine output drops below thirty.”

“Yes, sir.” He disappears.

Marcus watches him leave. “He’s terrified of you.”

“He should be terrified of missing the drain output.”

“See, that answer is why.”

My phone buzzes.

Maggie: Okay, divisions. Give me the version for a tired woman who has eaten one granola bar and several bad decisions.

Granola bar. Bad decisions.

I answer without thinking about why that detail stays with me.

Me: Each trunk splits into anterior and posterior divisions. Anterior divisions usually supply flexor compartments. Posterior divisions usually supply extensor compartments.

Maggie: Usually is the most cursed word in medicine.

Me: Yes.

Maggie: You agree too easily. It’s alarming.

Me: Correct answers tend to be easy.