Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 71688 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71688 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Instead of replying to that, Koenig told me, “I’m concerned about the new, higher dosages of pain medicine. They could cause nausea and loss of appetite, so pay close attention to how much the patient’s eating. I want detailed notes on his chart after each meal, not just ‘only ate part of his dinner.’ That doesn’t tell me anything.”
Then he left the room without so much as a glance at Oscar, which infuriated me. But I stuck a smile on my face again as I turned back to the kid and asked, “Are you feeling nauseous?”
“No more than before. I didn’t eat that much dinner because it was gross.”
“Ah yes, the infamous tuna noodle casserole. If you want, I can bring you a protein shake.”
“That sounds gross, too.”
“They’re actually pretty good. I drink them all the time at home. My favorite is the chocolate flavored one.”
“I guess I could try it. But don’t go get it now, okay? We barely started the book.”
“Alright. I’ll bring you one when we finish.”
I read until the end of my break, and then I left the book with Oscar and brought him the shake, as promised. “You’ll probably be asleep next time I swing by on my rounds,” I said, “so I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“You told me yesterday that you have Saturday off.”
“I do, but I still plan to come by and hang out with you. We’ve got that thick book to get through.”
His eyes were full of emotion as he murmured, “Thanks, Casey.”
We said good night, and I kept up my smile until I reached the hallway. Then my face creased into a scowl, and I went to find Koenig.
He should have been off hours ago, but he usually worked late and often holed up in his office. I knocked on the closed door, and an annoyed voice snapped, “What is it?” When I stepped into the small workspace, Koenig sighed and muttered, “Of course it’s you. What do you want, Lassiter?”
I tried to keep my anger in check as I told him, “Oscar Harris is a human being.”
He stared at me like I’d just rushed into his office wearing clown makeup. “Thank you for that brilliant insight.”
I chose my words carefully. What I really wanted was to ask him what the fuck was wrong with him, but that’d probably get me fired. “It would be helpful if you said hello to him when you came into his room, and actually talked to him instead of just reading his chart.”
“Not that I should have to explain myself to you, but I talked to him earlier, during his check-up. This time, it wasn’t necessary. I just wanted to take a look at the notes about how much of his dinner he’d eaten. He’s already underweight, so a loss of appetite could quickly become an issue.”
“But you’re intimidating to him.”
He leaned back in his chair, and the frown line between his dark brows deepened. “What’s intimidating about me doing my job?” His gaze never wavered from mine, and a random thought occurred to me—those pale blue eyes would actually be strikingly beautiful if they ever showed anything besides contempt or annoyance.
I pushed that idea aside and explained, “You’re an authority figure, and that can be scary to a kid.”
“I don’t have time to hold his hand. That’s your job. Mine is to make sure he’s getting enough medicine to keep his pain in check, but not so much that he stops eating.” He gestured at his computer and added, “I’m in the middle of reviewing a case study, so if you’re done offering me oh-so-helpful tips on my bedside manner, go away and shut the door behind you.”
Why had I even bothered? I left the office and went to find Yolanda, who was organizing the cart that had been used to distribute the last round of meds.
She glanced at me and asked, “Why do you look so annoyed?”
“I was just talking to Doctor Koenig.”
“That explains it.”
“Why would a man like that choose not only to be a doctor, but to go into the field of pediatrics? He hates people, and he treats the patients like they’re nothing more than a problem to solve.”
She muttered, “I’ve been asking myself that question for years.”
Yolanda and I both got off work at two a.m. We’d each been sent home with huge slices of cake, and my friend held a plastic-wrapped paper plate in each hand as I drove us across town.
When we reached the Mission District, I was surprised by how many people were out and about, until I remembered it was Friday night. All the bars had just closed, and there were a lot of them along this particular stretch of Sixteenth Street.
Yolanda glanced at a group of college-age women dancing on the sidewalk and murmured, “I don’t think I was ever that young.” She was thirty-eight, but she could have easily blended in with the club crowd. When I told her that, she said, “Yeah, no thanks. That was never my scene.”