Page 96 of Dr. Bad Boy

“How’d you know it was me?” I ask.

“My eyes aren’t all the way closed.”

“All the way, Ethan.”

“But—”

“Rest, kiddo. Rule number one today.” And tomorrow, and the day after…

We back away to the parents’ nook, and I pick up on that same tension between his parents again. They’re not touching each other.

It’s none of my business.

So I try not to notice when she bites her lip and gives him a sideways glance.

Or when he stiffens, like she’s pushing his last button without saying a single word.

I’m grateful when she shifts her attention to me, snapping herself together like Commander Mom. “How long is he likely to be in hospital this time? And what accommodations are we going to need to ask the school for? Should we be thinking about home schooling for the rest of the year to let him heal?”

“We have a team that you’ll meet either later today or tomorrow. All concussions fall under the umbrella of acquired brain injuries, and there’s a group of physicians and allied health providers that assess each case and work with parents to decide the optimal treatment plan.”

She frowns. “We didn’t see them last time.”

“No, Ethan bounced back really quickly and his care was easily handled by the paediatric residents. But this time we’re going to want to be extra careful.”

His father’s the one to respond first. “He’s fine, though, right?”

It’s the second time he’s asked me that. He didn’t accept my first answer and he’s not going to like anything else I say, either. But I can’t look this man in the eye and tell him his son is going to be okay, because I don’t know that to be true.

I hope it with all of my being, but I don’t honestly know.

“Because we’ve got a shipment of calves coming in day after tomorrow.”

My brain stutters over what I just heard. I slowly look up. Fuck. I know this guy has a farm to run, and he’s probably doing it all himself. And he’s worried about his kid. Right? He’s gotta be worried about his kid.

But if his God damned business matters so much, maybe he should have been more fucking mindful about—

I cut myself off. Even in my head, that’s not appropriate. It is none of my business how this family functions—or doesn’t—outside of what’s safe for their children. And I know that it wasn’t his decision for Ethan to go sledding.

But right now, I’m so close to punching something it’s not safe.

“We’ll know more after the scan. And he’s awake and cracking jokes. That’s an excellent thing.” I yank my pager off my hip and stare at the dark screen for a second. “Excuse me.”

I step into the hall long enough to calm myself down, then I check in with the radiology technician. Over her shoulder, I look at the imaging and swear under my breath.

He’s got a brain bleed. It’s small, but visible. An acute left frontal subdural hematoma.

I lean over and press the intercom. “Doing a great job, bud.”

He gives the camera a small smile. His eyes stay shut.

The tech pages the neurology team, and it doesn’t take long to decide to move into the OR immediately.

This is where my role ends, at least temporarily. I should get back to my office. Finish those assessments. But as Ethan’s stretcher slides out of the imaging machine, as he goes to sit up and two adults need to hold him down, because no, he can’t move…

I find myself glued to the spot.

I can’t leave him.

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