Page 9 of Time for You
“She’s referring to the fact that I’m from 1885,” Henry said with surprising humor.
James, ever the professional, didn’t raise an eyebrow. “That must be very confusing for you. Why don’t we get you back to a room right now? If Dr. Griffin is willing, she can show you the way.”
Honestly, Daphne had been planning on ditching him once he was through triage, but she felt a splinter of guilt. She’d crashed into him, and now he thought he was from an entirely different century, so the least she could do was hang out while he waited for a slot in CT to open up.
Daphne held the swinging doors open. “This way, Henry,” she said, and he followed her, surprisingly obedient. His eyes bounced from side to side as he tried to take it all in, and whatever the hell she’d done to his brain—or whatever had been wrong in the first place—was pretty serious. The usual signs she would have looked for weren’t present, since his speech was by all accounts coherent, if arrogant as hell, and his pupils were equal and reactive, but obviously something was majorly, majorly wrong. And not just with his personality.
She led him into a triage room, with wide glass doors that faced the main part of the ED, and pulled the internal curtain closed, holding up a hospital gown. “Change into this. You can leave your underwear on, and the tie—wait, do youhaveunderwear?”
His eyes widened and he flushed again. “Why on earth are you even asking, my lady?”
“It’s relevant. Are you wearing anything under your clothes?”
He swallowed and attempted to speak several times before managing it. He was really, truly shocked that she was asking about his underwear, it would seem. “I am wearing all the proper attire fitting a gentleman of my station, yes.”
“Okay then. If it covers your whole body, take it off. If it just covers your genitals, then you can leave it on.”
Henry looked about ready to faint. “Good heavens, the future is far more vulgar than I would have thought.”
“Not my fault you’re wearing something that looks like you belong inHamlet. But anyway, tie goes in the back, and I’ll come back in when you’re done. If you need help let me know, and I’ll find someone to help you,” she instructed. He hesitated, and she sighed. Probably best to play along for now, until they could get him some treatment—or a bed up inPsych. “Look, I know you probably have doubts about my competency, or whatever, but I promise, here in the twenty-first century, women are perfectly capable doctors.”
He looked down at the flimsy gown with a frown. “It’s not that. It’s that I must protest thatHamletjibe.”
“Is that really what you need to do? Now?” Daphne asked, wrinkling her nose in annoyance.
“I’m a respectable businessman, not an actor.”
“Understood. Now change.”
He hesitated again. “This gown, it’s—this is very thin. And you’ll be back in? While I’m wearing ... this?”
“Would it help you to know there’s nothing I haven’t seen?”
“Not particularly. That’s actually quite intimidating,” he said with that same flash of humor from earlier. “But I suppose I’ll need to trust you, mustn’t I?”
“Yep. Now change,” she said, and stepped out to give him some privacy. After five minutes, she started contemplating asking if he needed help, but just when she decided to, the curtain swooshed open.
“Is this truly what people in hospital are required to wear, or is this some sort of elaborate joke?”
Daphne turned, and for the first time since she rode her bike straight into him, she got a good look at Henry MacDonald, erstwhile time traveler. He was tall, probably just over six feet, with his shins and calves bare and sprinkled with dark-brown hair. His hair was dark brown with hints of red, and curly in a messy, vaguely appealing sort of way. He was just ripped enough that she could tell through the shapeless blue gown, although not in Anders’sI spend all my free time at a gymsort of way. She brought her eyes up to his face—a nice face, she had to admit, with a strong jaw and high cheekbones—and found him watching her with the tiniest smirk, like he knew what she was thinking.
“Why don’t you lie down?” Daphne said authoritatively, to hide the way her ears were burning. “I’m going to start ordering some tests.”
Henry did as she told him to, and for the next thirty minutes, he stayed patiently in the bed, following her instructions, even though just about everything bewildered him. The more she explained, the quieter he became. She was sort of relieved by that—he really was irritating—but also a little concerned. A spark in his eyes seemed to have gone out, which honestly seemed like a worse sign than his time-traveler story. She thought about asking if he wanted to watch TV, but given how deeply rooted theI’m a nineteenth-century gentlemanfixation seemed to be, she figured that would probably give him an aneurysm, if he didn’t have one already.
Despite his wariness, Henry sat through multiple blood draws and a round of X-rays, which at least confirmed he didn’t have any broken bones. CT was backed up, as usual, and the results from the lab wouldn’t be ready for more than an hour, which meant waiting. He had some scrapes that should be seen to, but she didn’t want to start on that only to get interrupted by Radiology. And Daphne didn’t like how quiet Henry had gotten. In a doctor-assessing-a-patient way, not that shewantedto talk to him. But they had a little time to kill, and they could either talk or sit in increasingly louder silence.
“Do you have any family, Henry?”
“Why? What sort of ‘test’ would require my family’s presence? Will you be needing their blood as well?”
“I’m just making conversation. If you’d rather sit here quietly, we can do that, too.”
A long silence followed, long enough that Daphne decided he would rather sit quietly, but then he spoke. “I have a mother and two sisters. I—think. I did in my life in Edinburgh, at least.”
“No father?” Daphne winced internally at her own bluntness. Usually, she was better with patients, but Henry had her off balance for about half a dozen reasons. Mostly because she’d decide he was the absolute worst, and then he’d go and make a quip that made her reconsider. And Daphne loathed uncertainty.
“He passed when I was eleven.”
