Chapter 10
Luke
“I’m sorry, Dr. Hotwell. You’re not really allowed in the hospital today.” Walter the security guard at the staff entrance blocked the doorway. “I’m pretty sure we told you this yesterday as well.”
“But today I need to see Dr. Cook.” Bulletproof excuse. Even if it was a lie.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Call him. He will see me, I’m sure of it.” Cook had told me to come once a week. It had been a week, but I’d avoided making an appointment. But still! Professional courtesy, right?
Plus, maybe I should see him. Something might be wrong with my brain.
Of course, I wasn’t telling Walter the security guard that. Or that my real intention for being here was to walk around the hospital and see if I could regain my bearings—find my real self.
“Dr. Hotwell, cut me some slack here.” Walter shrugged, palms up. “I have a job to do. Today, my job is to keep you out, unfortunately. It came from the top, after you threatened to ignore your six-week reprieve. They were firm. Don’t make me lose my job, sir.”
Seriously? They’d fire this guy if I was found in the building? I couldn’t decide if I was more angry or more humiliated. “I’m coming back tomorrow.”
“As long as you have an appointment. And, if you do, may I suggest using the public entrance?”
“Because otherwise you will still be assigned to keep me out?”
Walter gave me an apologetic smile. “Have a good day, sir.”
“Do you have any other suggestions?” I muttered as I turned to go.
Walter took it as not rhetorical. “A hobby, sir? While you wait for the rest of your six-week leave of absence to pass?”
“Hobby.” Snort. Why did everyone keep suggesting that? It was stupid. Surgeons don’t have hobbies. We don’t have time for hobbies. We are surgeons. Period.
“What about doing something outside? Heading to a dog park or something, watching some puppies play?”
Who was this guy, a guidance counselor on the side? “I’ll see you later, Walter.”
But as I left, his words took root, blast them. Hobby. I did need a hobby. Maybe not puppy-watching, but what?
I headed back across the plaza. The Citadel was across the street in that direction.
Dr. Cook, whistling, appeared in the plaza, his hands in his lab coat pockets. “Well, Dr. Hotwell. It’s you! I was wondering how you’re doing. You haven’t been in to see me for your evaluation.”
What serendipity, bumping into him. “Can I make an appointment?”
“How’s tomorrow? Are you free?”
I was always free. That was the problem. “I’ll be there.” We set a time.
“Did you see the latest keychains?” Dr. Cook had his cell phone out and had opened to a boutique sales site featuring the ever-a-topic-with-this-guy tchotchkes. “What color do you like best? I can arrange for any style you prefer.”
“I’m not really …”
“My daughter is getting so much better at them, don’t you think?”
His daughter! I let out a huge sigh.
“What?” Dr. Cook looked askance at me. “Don’t you like them?”
“I—I thought you made them.”