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As someone who was not just his doctor, however, I still thought his brother would want to know. Maybe his brother would somehow make this right. He couldn’t undo anthrax, but he could... do something for Davis.
He had to.
Okay, I couldn’t say anything about Davis’s condition or diagnosis or... anything. But I could...
Just send a message. Surely if Everett called, Davis would answer, and they’d be able to talk through this.
Call me, I typed. Was that something one brother could say to another? Would he actually call?It’s an emergency, I added. No, too much like medical info. I replacedan emergencywithurgent, but that still felt too close, too clinical.
I settled onCall me ASAP. Yeah. That would work, and it wasn’t illegal, and when he followed through, it would prove to Davis that Everett did care.
I was not doing this as his doctor. I was doing this as his... well, I didn’t know what we were, but we were certainly more than just that.
I hit send before I could think better of it. And then I did think better of it, so I deleted the message. Hopefully Everett would call with a “What’s up?” And not a “Why did you text me?”
That suddenly felt like a huge, stupid risk. But it could come with a stupid huge reward, right? Wasn’t a united family the ultimate goal? And if the worst happened—
The worst was not going to happen. I peeked at the culture from Davis’s nasal swab, although anthrax grew so slowly that it was supposed to take another twenty-eight hours to see results. Naturally, there was nothing to speak of.
I left the lab, plugging in Davis’s phone to give to him later. I definitely needed to catch up on my records and consults, do rounds in at least three units, and check on a few of my patients’ latest cultures, but I should be able to get in to see Davis by lunchtime. And maybe I could call in a favor from Natalie first.
Apparently there really wasn’t a nurse assigned to the Infectious Disease isolation rooms, because Cassie had also been the one to bring me my lunch in isolation, too, along with a medium-sized potted plant. Together, we’d enjoyed Judge Judy bringing justice—and debated a better alliterative verb for that sentence (even the thesaurus had nothing—and no, Cassie said “adjudicating” didn’t count).
Long after she’d left, I stared at the plant’s leaves, elongated hearts with a white stripe flowing down the center like a river of cream.
Cassie had held out the pot to me. “This is Phil the silver stripe philodendron. He’s a great listener,” she’d said. I wasn’t entirely sure I believed her, but while she was off doing her job, this little guy was my only company.
“Hey, Phil,” I tried. “You can’t get anthrax, can you?”
No, I imagined him saying,but my soil could hold the spores for decades.
“Good thing people infected with anthrax don’t give off spores.” I sighed. I wasn’t even sick—yet?—but I did not want to be a “person with anthrax.”
I picked up the phone Cassie had also brought me at lunch. Luke had responded to my text immediately, inordinately worried about someone he’d never met face-to-face. He vowed to take any sort of legal action I wanted, informed me the LLC had signed the lease, promised my new apartment would be ready before I was discharged, et cetera, et cetera. More than all the business, though, the concern he’d shown first had been... well, touching.
Because it was all the concern I’d expected to get.
Although... maybe Cassie saw me as more than just a patient.
Why had I asked her for coffee instead of a straight-up date? Yes, she’d smiled, but there were still plenty of ways to interpret that invitation which fell short of romance.
I looked to Phil. “What do you think, plant?”
I think Queen Ethics would sooner die than date a patient. Probably also a coworker.
“Yes, very good point, Phil; I won’t think about that anymore.” I gingerly held one of his leaves and mimicked it giving me a high five.
Oh boy. Was it the isolation, or did anthrax have psychotropic effects?
A message popped up on my phone, and then I was certain anthrax had to cause some sort of hallucinations. Because there was no other explanation for a text from Everett—Neverett, the brother whonevercontacted me or responded.
?was all it said.
My name shouldn’t have been released to the media, so it couldn’t be about my current condition. Unless he was in, like, Bora Bora, it had to have been days since he’d seen Harper Tyne’s stunt to get his attention. Or exact her revenge. Or whatever.
But three and a half days would be a new speed record for Everett contacting me, so that seemed most likely. If the single punctuation mark he deigned to send was to be taken as a challenge—ahow could you, bro?—the situation didn’t deserve it. Besides, that would be more of ahow could you be kissed by the ex-girlfriend I wronged and recently hooked up with again only to cheat on her AGAIN?So if anyone should be offended in this situation, it wasn’t Everett.
I looked to the plant on the nightstand. “Do I respond, Phil?”
