Page 7 of Time for You
If possible, he turned even more red, but he also refused to meet her eyes. “Miss, I—it’s simply that you’re wearing—would you mind? Covering up?” He gestured at her, and she looked down at herself.
Sure, her scrubs were a little ratty now, thanks to the spill she’d taken, and her hoodie had seen better days even before she ran into someone on her bike, but it wasn’t like she was naked. “Covering up?”
“You cannot be so dense. What you’re wearing? In public? It’s positively indecent. We haven’t even been introduced properly. Although with how familiar you’re being, with no chaperone, perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised.”
Indecent?Oh no, she was definitely ditching this asshole with the triage nurse, whoever that happened to be at the moment. “Yeah, well, that’s because I ran you over with my bike,” she said dryly. “And I did just tell you my name.”
“Yes, I am well aware of your claim to be adoctor.”
Daphne stopped. “What thehellis your deal?”
“Oh good, you’re foulmouthed in addition to being completely undressed in public.”
“These scrubs are what I have to wear to work because I am adoctor, so I don’t know what you expect me to do.” Daphne wasn’t sure why she was bothering, but bothering she was.
“For what purpose could you possibly be required to wear yourbloomersin public?”
“Bloomers? The fuck are bloomers?”
That made him whirl around to face her. “With language like that, I’m starting to think you might not be a lady at all.”
“I’m not. I’m a doctor.”
He sighed. “That’s simply not possible.”
“Why? Because my brain is too small? My hormones will get in the way?”
“No. Because most medical colleges do not allow women to graduate. I know that for a fact.”
“You do, do you?”
“Yes. Or else my sister Anne would be attending the medical college in Edinburgh now, if they allowed women to do more than merely observe.”
It was official. This was the weirdest damn brain injury she had ever witnessed. Or maybe it was a longer-standing delusion—after all, thinking it was 1885 would explain his clothes. And the hat, which he was wearing like it was normal to cosplay as Abraham Goddamn Lincoln. But Daphne had encountered a lot of patients dealing with pretty serious mental illnesses, and they didn’t usually present so rationally. He didn’t have the typical signs he was struggling to hold on to reality. His thoughts were coherent and consistent, except for the part where he thought it was nearly a hundred and fifty years ago. Even tumors usually had other symptoms. The only other option was that he was extremely, extremely committed to a very weird, very annoying prank. She was honestly hoping for the tumor, as bad as it would be, because the other option was ending up on TikTok or some shit, thanks to some dude who wanted to go viral.
“Med schools have accepted women for a long-ass time,” she replied. “It’s the goddamn twenty-first century, after all.”
Daphne had gone another ten feet before she realized he’d stopped walking. “What did you just say?” he asked.
“The twenty-first century.”
“That’s quite simply impossible.”
“Oh, is it?” she said, far more sarcastically than her Doctorsona would, since by now her Doctorsona was hanging on by a thread.
“If it were true, that would mean I had traveled through time. And we may live in an age of astonishing progress, but time travel? That’s preposterous.”
To be fair, at no point had Daphne consideredthatpossibility. “The other option is that you hit your head very, very hard, and now are confused about what year it is, and when you’re from.”Very confused, and with clothes that match your delusion, which is also very strange,she added mentally.
“I repeat, that’s impossible. I recognize you might not be educated on the rules of physics, but—”
“For fuck’s sake,I am a doctor.”
“Also impossible,” he replied haughtily. “Not to mention, incredibly crude.”
“Okay, you know what? Fine. Hospital’s that way. You can go or not—I don’t care.”
“Charming,” he muttered, but Daphne ignored him, deciding she’d take the light-rail back to her apartment.
