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I lean down so I can speak softly into her ear. “I’m so glad I got to see you for a few minutes today,” I say. “It’s definitely a better day than it would have been if I hadn’t seen you at all.”
Every muscle in my hands and arms wants to move closer to her, to touch her shoulder, her face, her hair, but I stand up, wave, and walk away.
It’s like walking through sand. I have to fight for every step. My body is so not in favor of moving away from Sage Whitney.
I let myself in the back door of the clinic and put the remaining half of the magic sandwich in the fridge. After I wash up, I follow the sound of Kimberly’s voice to the open door of the second exam room. She’s sitting with a kid who’s holding a gauze pad beneath his chin. At a glance, I’m guessing he was riding a single-wheel board and wiped out. His shirt is torn at one elbow and bloodied at the other, and his jeans have seen better days.
Kimberly looks up and sees me. “Dr. Mercer, this is Martin. He could use your expertise.”
I smile at the kid. “Hi, Martin. Want to tell me what happened?”
Kimberly stays in the room. She knows this part is important, because she already asked him about his fall, and any discrepancies in the story might be a marker of concussion. We see a lot of that here, and not just from sports. I treated a girl last year who got a concussion from taking a flying leap onto the couch in her common room and hitting her head on her roommate’s popcorn bowl. She couldn’t read a screen for six weeks.
Martin catches my eye from his reclined position on the exam table.
“Parkour,” he says. And that’s probably enough of an answer.
I nod. “You any good?”
“This isn’t my first injury, if that’s what you mean.”
“I’m not sure if lots of stitches means you’re good at it or terrible,” I say, and he laughs.
“Pretty good, I guess,” he says, making an attempt at modesty. He makes a waving gesture as if to take in the whole idea of Chamberlain Academy. “There are great places for training here.”
I wash my hands again, then put on gloves and take the gauze from his chin. “Where were you training today?”
I know his answer is going to interfere with my examination, but I want him to tell it all now, before I stitch him up.
“Back of the history building. There’s a great ramp and rails.”
“And a gravel drive, looks like.”
He says, “Yeah, some little rocks on the ramp. That may be what I slipped on.”
I nod. “And you brought some with you for souvenirs.”
He makes a grimacing face. “Do you have to pick them out?”
“I’ll numb you first,” I say. “But you really don’t want them to stay in there.”
“I have some gravel in my knee,” he says. “It’s fine. Doesn’t bug me at all, and you can feel it through the skin.”
“Badge of honor?” I ask.
“You get it.”
“Yeah, and it’s cool in your leg, but maybe not everywhere.”
“No, but it’s like rough and smooth at the same time,” he says, reaching for the hem of his jeans like he’s going to convince me to leave the gravel in his chin.
“I’d like to see that. Maybe you can show me after we stitch you up. But your knee is different, more bone than the soft part under your chin.”
“It would make me look pretty cool,” Martin says, then shrugs. “But if you say it has to come out, then it has to come out. You’re the pro here. Besides, I can look cool without rocks in my face.”
“Agreed,” I tell him.
I wipe numbing solution around the cut, then administer the shot. When he’s not able to feel any more sensation, I tweeze out as many tiny rocks as I can find. Then, six sutures later, he’s ready to sit up.
