Page 95 of Dr. Bad Boy

Fuck. I hate this part of my job.

I force out a slow exhale before approaching. I give his father a quick handshake before sanitizing my hands and introducing myself to the resident, who gets out of my way.

I slide my Batman penlight out of my pocket and take a quick look in Ethan’s eyes as I ask him what happened.

“I dunno,” he slurred. “There was a boy in front of me. And he—and he—and… he… I thought he was gonna…”

His speech is all mixed up, and not just from pain or fear. His eyes aren’t tracking well, and his right eyelid might be drooping. I’m damn glad I called for the neurosurgery consult.

“We told the school he couldn’t do sports,” his mother said over my shoulder, and I nod.

I know. They always do. And something happens anyway. Kids don’t remember, and there’s never enough school yard supervision during recess. I look at Ethan. “We’re going to admit you, bud. And do some tests. Your job is to rest as much as possible, okay? Eyes closed now for a bit. That’s great.”

A neurology resident shows up while I’m explaining to Ethan’s parents what comes next. More testing, to start. At least a few days in the hospital. I don’t say the s-word, but it’s bouncing around in my head for the same gut-instinct reason the page freaked me out.

There’s a weird tension pinging back and forth between them that I can’t sort out. They’re both worried about Ethan, that’s crystal clear. “Where are your girls?” I ask.

Ethan’s mother rubs her forehead. “They’ll go to a friend’s for the night. Sleepover.”

“Okay. Do you need anything today?” I glance at my watch. It’s not even lunch. Ethan was hurt on morning recess, but for these parents, that was a lifetime ago already.

His father shakes his head. “Just tell us he’s going to be okay.”

“We’re gonna take good care of him.” It’s my default answer. And it’s the truth. But it’s not the answer he’s looking for.

And the reason for that is clear on the neuro resident’s face when we step into the privacy of the nook where the files are kept.

“He needs a CT scan.”

I nod. But still,fuck. Normally the protocol for concussion is straight up rest. We did that the first time. But the symptoms of a possible bleed are all there. Better safe than sorry.

The resident gives me a confused look. “Do you disagree?”

“No.” I nodded, didn’t I? Then I realize I’m frowning at him. “This is just one of those cases than feels personal.”

“Ah.” He laughs gently. “Is it weird if I say it’s a relief to hear you say that?”

I pat him on the shoulder. “Not at all. It’s good to care about your patients.” That’s true. It’s also kind of bullshit. Right now I’d be providing better medical care to Ethan if I didn’t care too God damned much. I need to focus on the next steps. “I’ll tell his parents. You put in the order for imaging.”

After lettingEthan and his parents know that we need some pictures of his head—no, they won’t hurt, and yes, we’ll all be right there when he gets them taken—I head back to my office.

Blair’s on the phone, so I slip past him and pull up my calendar on my computer. In theory, my phone syncs to the network, but in reality, I don’t trust it.

I have lunch with a colleague. I fire her a quick email telling her I need to cancel. We were only going to the cafeteria anyway. Then I block off the rest of my afternoon and put a note on it that residents can still page me.

I point at Blair’s computer on my way past him again and he waves.

When I reach the top of the corridor, my phone vibrates. A text from my assistant.

B: Don’t forget you still need to eat something. Cancelling lunch doesn’t mean cancelling eating.

M: Thanks, Mom.

I stop at the coffee shop and grab a bagel. I eat it in the call room before meeting Ethan’s family in the imaging department.

I catch up with them just as he’s being rolled into the CT scan machine.

“Hey, Dr. D,” he says, his eyes closed.

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