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“Are you okay?” she asked.
He nodded, a glimpse of a smile touching his lips. “Yes. No. I don’t know.”
She turned toward him. “Which is it?” she asked softly.
He shrugged. “I …” he started, but his voice cracked, and he stopped, looking at the ceiling for a second, his jaw tight.
“Can I help?” she asked. “I’m a junior doctor here. May I?” She pointed to the seat next to him, and he nodded. She noticed a hospital bracelet on his wrist. “Are you a patient?”
“Was,” he replied. “Just discharged.”
“And you’re still here? Most people can’t wait to get out of this place.”
Romilly wasn’t sure why she was making conversation. She knew she needed to get home, grab some sleep before the next inevitable twelve-hour shift, but something about him made her pause. He seemed such an unlikely person to be there. He looked strong, full of health, but his manner and posture were different. Afraid.
She’d seen people like him before. Out of place, unable to talk. That sadness, the desperation. Then they go home and down a liter of vodka and a bottle of pills.
He looked at her, then away again quickly.
“Let me help,” she said.
He swallowed. “They— the doctors—say there’s nothing wrong with me.” He was still staring at the floor, pulling his jumper up over his hands. It was a childish gesture, strangely vulnerable on a man like him. “But I can’t shift the feeling. That something’s up, and they’re not finding it.”
“Okay. What are your symptoms?”
“Tiredness. Worn out. Nosebleeds. Same as they were before.”
“Before?”
“When I was a kid. When I was nine. I had cancer. Acute lymphoblastic leukemia.”
“And you think it’s back.”
“I know it’s back.”
Romilly thinks for a second. “I’ll tell you what. How about I get your chart, and I’ll have a look and talk you through it. I’m a junior doctor in oncology. Cancer is literally my thing.”
He turned quickly toward her. “You can do that?”
“Of course.” She pointed down the corridor toward the coffee shop. “Meet me there, half an hour. And we can talk.”
He smiled, more naturally this time. “Thank you. That would be good.” He held out his hand.
“Adam Bishop.”
She shook it, his grip firm, his skin soft. “Romilly Cole,” she replied.
* * *
She left him and went through the double doors into oncology. She stopped at the reception desk and asked for his chart.
The doctor behind the desk heard her. “Didn’t we just discharge him?” he asked. “Why do you need it, Rom?”
“Professional interest,” she lied. “Might fit one of the studies I’m working on.”
“I doubt it. Nothing wrong with him, except for a bit of hypochondria.”
She opened the chart and ran her finger down the numbers. “What’s his history?”
