by G. R. Lyons
“Definitely not going to Tanas,” he muttered under his breath, spreading out one patient's lab records and surgical reports so that they intentionally overlapped and covered his entire screen, particularly hiding the icon for his finances. “Not a bloody chance.”
* * *
SOLDAY MORNING found Graeden sitting at his desk in his apartment, going over patient files and reviewing case studies in medical journals even before the suns began to rise. He'd acquired several new patients in the past few weeks and felt himself falling behind on his work, despite the long hours he already put in each day.
At eighth hour of morning, he was interrupted by the arrival of the woman from the house cleaning service he used, but she went right to work with barely a greeting and moved about quickly and quietly, allowing Graeden enough peace to concentrate on his own tasks.
While the woman finished and was gathering her supplies, Graeden closed his files and locked his desk in preparation for going out. He stared at the blank surface of his desk, anxiously counting down the minutes until he could leave, and without thinking about it, he reached over and grabbed a pen and a notepad, idly sketching while he waited.
“All finished, Dr. Crawford,” the woman announced.
Startled, Graeden dropped the pen and crumpled the sheet, stuffing it into his pocket before the woman emerged from the washroom.
He quickly thanked the woman, paid her, and bid her farewell, lingering at the door as he watched her stroll down to the elevator and step into the car. As soon as she was out of sight, Graeden peeked down the hallway in either direction and bolted out the door, slowing down just long enough to hear his apartment lock behind him as he headed for the stairwell at the end of his floor.
Graeden raced down the stairs, sometimes hopping over a few risers in his hurry, and swung himself around the turn in the landing. He went down one more flight, then stepped out into the hallway and caught an elevator, looking around as he stepped into the empty car and pushed the button for the sixth floor.
The doors opened, and Graeden slowly stepped out, keeping his head down even though he didn't see anyone nearby, and rushed down to Mrs. Newar's apartment.
Mrs. Newar greeted him with a smile as she stepped aside to let him in, and as the door shut behind him, Graeden straightened up and breathed a sigh of relief.
“How are you today, Dr. Crawford?” Mrs. Newar asked.
“Very well, thank you,” he said, pressing her hand. “Is–”
“Everything is just fine,” she assured him, holding out an arm and leading him into the next room. “Go on in. I'll bring you some coffee.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Newar.”
Graeden walked past the living room and slowly opened a bedroom door, grinning at the sight that lay before him.
* * *
EARLY EVENING, Graeden left Mrs. Newar's apartment, slowly heading back to his own with a smile on his face and lightness in his heart. His entire body felt relaxed as he made his way back up through the building, breathing easily as he strolled along.
He reached his own apartment and hesitated at the door, looking back over his shoulder and wishing he could just turn around and retrace his steps. Taking a deep breath, he shook his head and opened the door, looking forward to a quiet evening, home alone, getting more work done so as to make the hours before his next visit pass more quickly.
Graeden shut the door, looked up, and lurched to a stop.
“Oh, hey, Grae.”
“Iora.” He blinked, watching his girlfriend move about the kitchen. “What are you doing here?”
Iora shrugged and reached into the refrigerator for a carton of juice. “Seminar got canceled, right at the last minute. Wasted all that time packing for nothing.”
Graeden took a few steps through the living room and came to a stop again. “You could have called to say you were coming over.”
“I did call,” she said. “You didn't have your phone with you.”
Graeden patted his pockets and looked around, realizing he'd left his phone on his desk. He darted over to it and checked his notifications, seeing two missed calls from Iora and one from the hospital owner. The latter wasn't marked urgent, and there were no missed messages from the emergency room, so he breathed a sigh of relief and tossed the phone aside.
“Hungry?” Iora asked. “I'm making stir fry.”
Graeden's head snapped up. “Since when do you cook?”
Iora rolled her eyes. “I cook, sometimes. Besides, I'm sick of this prepackaged, frozen stuff you're always getting.”
“It's convenient,” he insisted, grabbing the juice carton from where she'd set it on the counter, and reached down a glass. “Besides, it's–”
He dropped the glass, hearing it smash on the floor, and Iora whirled to face him, a bell pepper in one hand and a knife in the other.
Graeden held his hands out in front of himself and backed away, panting.
“What in seven hells is wrong with you?” Iora asked, gesturing with the knife. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”
“Put the knife down,” Graeden said, swallowing hard.
“What?”
“I said put the knife down.”
“Graeden, what's gotten into you–”
“Where did you get that, anyway? I don't have any knives here.”
Iora rolled her eyes. “I know. I had to buy you one because I couldn't find any.” She turned back to the cutting board and worked on the pepper. “Seriously, how do you manage?”
“Iora, I'm not going to say it again. Put the knife down or get the fuck out of my apartment.”
She put down the knife and turned to face him with a hand on her hip. “You've got to be kidding me.”
“I mean it. Get out. Right now.”
Iora gave him a strange look and stepped toward him. Graeden flinched and jumped back, slamming into the refrigerator.
“Bloody fucking hells, Grae. What is with you?”
Graeden didn't answer, but kept his hands out between them and felt his heart racing.
“Fine,” Iora said, rolling her eyes. “Whatever. I'll come back when you're sane.”
She spun away, snatched up her purse off the coffee table, and stormed toward the door.
“Take the knife with you!” Graeden called to her.
She glanced at him over her shoulder and rolled her eyes again, then let herself out, slamming the door as she left. Graeden stared at the door for several seconds before he was able to move.
He looked over at the knife resting on the cutting board, breathing heavily as he slowly moved closer. Reaching out a trembling hand, he pinched the handle between his thumb and middle finger and carefully lifted it from the counter. Without taking his eyes off the knife, he felt around for the cabinet door below the sink, opened it, flung the blade into the garbage can, and slammed the cabinet door shut with both hands.
Graeden closed his eyes and took a deep breath, shaking as he straightened up. It was several seconds before he registered the broken glass all over the floor, and several more seconds before he could make himself move to clean it up.
When he was finished, he rushed over to the panel on the wall for his security system, input his passcodes to get into the settings, and deleted Iora's permissions to access his apartment without his presence. With only his own biometric signature and remote override codes remaining to open the front door, Graeden sank to the floor and leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes as he tried to get his racing heart under control.
Chapter 5
AFTER A night full of flashing images of knives, rage, screams, and blood haunting his dreams, Graeden skipped breakfast and went straight down to his office, hoping to drown himself in work and shake off the memories.
Once he was at his desk, though, he found himself simply staring at his list of patient files, unable to drum up the motivation to open any one of them. He gazed blankly at the screen, frozen in his chair, and wished he could be somewhere else.
Mrs. Newar's apartment, to be exact, but he knew he'd have to wait.
A flashing icon on his screen distracted him, and without thinking, he reached out and tapped on the icon, opening up the video screen for the incoming call.
“Secretary said you were in early, but I didn't quite believe it.”
Graeden blinked and shook himself. “Mr. Bokin?”
The hospital owner shook his head as he looked at Graeden. “You know, Graeden, I've seen your file access log and your patient reports. Hells, man, your surgical schedule! You work almost every evening, even on Solday, and now you're coming in early on a Marday morning? Graeden, if you keep pushing yourself like this–”
“I'm fine,” Graeden interrupted.
Mr. Bokin shook his head again. “You're not going to be any good to your patients—or yourself—if you don't take a break now and then.”
“I take breaks,” he insisted, clenching his hands into fists in his lap while he fought the urge to simply cut off the call.
“Two hours for lunch every day is not enough when you log the kind of hours you do. Graeden, I've got a report here that shows you're logged in to the system and updating patient files until midnight most nights.”
Graeden shrugged. “I have a lot of patients.”
“So take fewer. There are other doctors in this hospital.”
“I need–”
He broke off and looked away, then took a deep breath and changed the subject.
“I saw you called yesterday,” he told the hospital owner. “I was out.”
Mr. Bokin shook his head. “I was going to ask why you turned down the Tanas expedition, but I think I already have my answer. Though, I must say, the change of scene might do you good.”
“I'm too busy to leave,” Graeden said, picking up his tablet off the corner of his desk and glancing over his schedule for the day.
“I just thought, with your heritage–”
“I'm not Tanasian,” Graeden insisted. When Mr. Bokin gave him a questioning look, he rolled his eyes and said, “Alright, so I'm a quarter Tanasian. What has that got to do with anything?”
The hospital owner shrugged. “People are different there. You're not interested in studying them?”
“Not particularly.”
“You know, you being part of this expedition would allow for a certain degree of diplomacy that otherwise wouldn't–”
“So I'm supposed to play politician now, is that it?” Graeden scoffed, tossing aside his tablet and leveling a look at the hospital owner. “I'm a doctor, not a bureaucrat. We have no government on this Isle, and I quite like it that way. I have no interest in getting wrapped up in the politics of Tanas, and you know perfectly well the entire expedition is going to be nothing more than a big, disastrous joke because whoever goes over there is going to be hemmed in by the system. I can't treat patients with a politician standing in my way.”
“Not even if it saves lives?”
“How could I possibly save any lives over there when I have to get permission from the Elders for every pill, every needle, every procedure? I can't even begin to imagine the scope of policy they have in place over there, but you know it's going to be ridiculous. I'll be trying to cure someone, and they'll be standing over my shoulder, telling me I can't use a proven drug because it's illegal, or telling me I can't perform a certain effective surgery because their socialized care system doesn't authorize it. No, I'm sorry, Mr. Bokin. I can't work with my hands tied behind my back, and that is exactly what will happen to whoever goes there. I'm not going to Tanas and that's final.”
The hospital owner was silent for a long while, just sitting there looking at Graeden over his folded hands.
“Alright,” Mr. Bokin said. “I understand. It's your choice. I just thought it might interest you.”
Rather than say anything more, Graeden simply shook his head and picked up his tablet again.
“Very well,” the hospital owner added. “I won't take up any more of your time. But Graeden?”
“Yes?” he asked, turning his eyes back to the screen.
“Take the night off, would you?” Mr. Bokin said with a chuckle, and ended the call.
Graeden sat still, blinking at the empty screen, and finally shook himself and swiped the call icon aside, covering it with his patient files. He took a deep breath and went through each one, quickly and methodically, then got up to start his morning rounds.
For a couple hours, Graeden lost himself in checking vital signs, discussing symptoms, reviewing test results, and administering medications. The episode with Iora was forgotten as he explained a surgical procedure to one elderly woman, and his frustrating conversation with Mr. Bokin left his mind as he listened to the irregular heartbeat of a young boy.
Walking past the emergency room on his way to the next patient, a frantic nurse waved him over. Graeden adjusted his glasses and strode into the emergency room just as two emergency techs rushed through the main door with a body on a stretcher between them.
The nurse was one step ahead of them and met Graeden on his way over.
“Male, early forties,” she said. “Multiple stab wounds.”
The man groaned as he was settled onto a gurney, and the emergency technicians hurried out of the way while Graeden pulled on a pair of gloves and tore the man's shirt open to get a better look at his wounds. As he did so, the nurse brought up the man's medical history on a wallscreen while another nurse hurried over with cloths and instruments.
“No allergies, no current medications,” the nurse announced.
“Was he scanned?” Graeden asked, gently probing each cut while one of the nurses wiped away excess blood.
Without answering, the nurse at the wallscreen pressed an icon, and a digital representation of the man's body appeared in the air right above him. Graeden shifted the hologram around and analyzed the extent of the patient's wounds.
“Move him to the O.R.!” Graeden ordered, seeing a cut that went much deeper than it appeared. The nurses rushed off with the patient while Graeden ran to a clean room, where he quickly washed and was helped on with cap, mask, and fresh gloves. By the time he entered the operating room, an anesthesiologist had already put the man under and was monitoring his condition while the nurses got tools laid out and scanners online.
Graeden cleared his mind of everything but the body in front of him, moving quickly as he scanned and probed wounds, stitching up internal damage, double- and triple-checking lungs and organs to make sure nothing was missed. With each wound thoroughly cleaned and scanned for the first hints of infection, Graeden quickly worked through the external stitches and bandaged everything up.
He waited as the patient slowly returned to consciousness, pain medication being applied as the anesthesia wore off. Graeden checked the man's vital signs again, scanned him one more time, and instructed the staff to have him moved to a recovery room.
“Nice work,” he told the anesthesiologist as he discarded his soiled gloves in a hazardous waste container. “Donlar's theory again?”
The man nodded. “Seems to be working since I've been using it regularly. The calculations are awfully precise, but…Well, no sense keeping them under any longer than necessary. He was a mage, you know?”
“Who?”
“Donlar.”
“Was he?” Graeden asked, only half listening as he wrote up a surgical report on the patient's chart.
“Makes sense, too,” the man went on. “I mean, Kalos is the patron god of Jadu'n, but he's also the Father of Healing, so he's really the patron god of all doctors. Leave it to a mage to make incredible medical discoveries like that.”
“Well…” Graeden typed in a few more details and closed the patient's file. “I'd much rather–”
“Dr. Crawford?”
Graeden looked up and saw a nurse peeking into the operating room.
“The man's wife is here,” she said. “Wants to know how he's doing.”
Graeden looked at the a
nesthesiologist and rolled his eyes.
“I hate this part of the job,” he grumbled.
“Better you than me,” the man joked, and walked away.
Graeden took off his mask and followed the nurse out to the waiting room, where he found a middle-aged woman pacing anxiously, tears streaming down her face. She saw Graeden and rushed over.
“My husband–”
Graeden held up a hand. “He's in recovery. I want to keep him overnight for observation, but he should be just fine.”
“Oh, thank the gods,” the woman said with a sigh. “I don't know how we'd survive without him. I can't work anymore, and the children–”
“He'll be just fine,” Graeden interrupted. “Now, if you'll excuse me…”
He saw the woman shake her head as he turned away, and she muttered, “I don't know what I was thinking.”
Graeden lurched to a stop and turned back. “What was that?”
The woman colored and looked down at her hands. “He just…He made me so angry…and I…I couldn't help myself…I just…”
Graeden grabbed the woman by the throat and slammed her back against the wall.
The woman let out a squeak of fear, her eyes going wide as she stared back at him, and Graeden felt a flurry of activity around him as others ran over, grabbing him and pulling him away.
“Gods, Graeden, what in seven hells was that?”
“What are you doing?”
“What is wrong with you?”
Graeden shook himself, staring at the woman as she looked back at him, the guilt of her actions plain on her face, and tore himself away, pushing through the crowd and hurrying from the room.
* * *
“SO, I heard you caused a little drama this morning.”
Graeden looked up from his dinner and glanced over at his friend and fellow doctor, Jase Ker. The two of them were in Jase's office, sharing a takeaway dinner while they went over a particularly perplexing diagnosis of one of Jase's patients.
“So?” Jase pressed. “Gonna tell me what happened?”
“It's nothing,” Graeden mumbled, poking a fork at the asparagus on his plate.
