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“Did you get lunch before your accident?” I ask. He doesn’t need to know I’m checking his memory.
“Yeah,” he says. “Pasta in the cafeteria.”
Kimberly is already standing at the computer in the corner, and she types for a minute, then nods. One of the benefits of being a Chamberlain entity is that we can check if Martin swiped his ID card at the cafeteria.
“What kind of pasta?”
“Fettuccini alfredo.”
Good.
“And how did you get to the clinic after?” I ask.
He grins. “My girlfriend walked me over. She had her arm around me, all worried about me.”
“Nice. Take advantage of that while you can. She might lose her sense of humor or at least her sense of protection if you take a lot of falls.”
I check his pupil dilation and ask him a few more questions, then have him key his cell number into the tablet so the concussion checklist will send to his phone.
“Have a roommate read it to you in a couple of hours. Stay off screens as much as possible for the next day or so, but unless it hurts, you can do whatever’s needed for classes.”
He nods. “All the work and none of the fun stuff,” he says.
“Consider it adulting practice,” I tell him, and I walk him out to the waiting room.
A girl jumps out of a chair and launches herself at him, mumbling about how worried she was and how glad she is he’s okay.
He hugs her and grins at me over her shoulder, as if we’re sharing a dude moment. I guess we are. I know I wouldn’t complain if someone made that kind of fuss over me.
“Make sure you call us if anything changes,” I tell him as the two of them head out the door.
Waiting room empty, I walk back through the door to the exam rooms.
Kimberly waits for me. “Sorry about lunch,” she says.
Her smile invites me to tell her how it went, but I just return a smile and walk toward my office.
“Oh, come on. You’re not going to hold this against me, are you?” she asks. “Should I have stitched that boy up myself?”
I lean against my doorframe. “Course not,” I say. “You did everything exactly right. It’s not your fault that kid broke his fall with his chin.”
“But you’re going to punish me anyway? Keep all the interesting stories to yourself?” She’s not even pretending to pay attention to anything else. She’s staring at me with that focus that has made her such a competent nurse her whole adult life.
“I will give you this,” I say. “Sage has excellent taste in sandwiches.”
Kimberly looks confused. “Is that code for something? Some kind of hint?”
I nod. I love to mess with her. “Let me know when you figure it out,” I say, and go into my office to revisit every glance and word from our abbreviated lunch date.
It’s not even two minutes later that my desk phone rings. My direct-to-office line, which only a very few people have.
I answer, and when I hear Wanda Chamberlain’s voice through the line, I can’t help but smile.
“Hello, Dr. Mercer,” she says. “How are you today? Have I caught you at your lunch break?”
“Just finished stitching up one of our students,” I tell her, realizing that I want her to know I’m staying busy. That I’m a contributor to Chamberlain society. “How can I help you?”
“I wonder if you can fit me in for a quick check-up.”
