Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 24251 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24251 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
“I’m working on it now, Mr. Disdale,” I mutter under my breath, looking back at the paperwork in front of me. It happens to be the Parker case he’s asking about and I cover the title of the page with another. The last thing I want is to spark a conversation with Willy.
“Well, I’m going to need it soon,” he hisses, but then hesitates, his breath catching slightly. “Do you know what else I need soon?”
I grimace internally, but slap a smile on my face. “What, Mr. Disdale?”
“A date with you.”
My smile never falters, but inside, I’m mentally vomiting. This is a daily occurrence for me and his relentlessness is tiresome. He needs to be reported to HR for sexual harassment, but what can you do when the man is a name partner at your law firm? I look at the wily figure before me and respond,” No” with a tight smile.
He sighs and shrugs his shoulders, sauntering off to his office. “You’ll say yes one day, Miss Castor. I’m sure of it.”
Not. Nothing could make me more violently ill than going on a date with Willy Disdale. I would chop off my right arm before letting that happen.
As I watch Willy walk away, my direct manager, Bernice, minces over to my desk, her hands tightly clasped in front of her as her line of sight darts between me and Willy. Bernice is a middle-aged woman with little to no fashion sense. She refuses to dye her gray hair, which is pulled into a low bun at the base of her neck, calling to mind Miss Havisham from Great Expectations. Her beige shirt is two sizes too big for her and her long, billowing floral skirt does nothing for her figure whatsoever.
But actually, Bernice is relatively okay-looking. With a slender nose, plump lips, and big hazel eyes, she’s not bad. It’s her terrible presentation that makes her resemble a mouse.
“Was Willy asking about the Parker case?” she asks.
Just as I open my mouth to reply and confirm her suspicions, I feel that familiar tickle between my eyes that cascades down the length of my nose. Oh, no.
“Ah-CHOO!” I sneeze loudly.
When I open my eyes, Bernice is staring at me, utterly horrified. Her mouth hangs open and she takes a few steps back, socially distancing herself from me and my area.
“Go home, Olivia,” she demands. “Get some rest.”
“But I feel fine—”
“Go home,” she reiterates. “I can take the Parker case off of your hands. We don’t need anyone to be getting sick in the office, especially during this pandemic.”
I don’t argue after glancing around the office and seeing the desperate, terrified looks on everyone’s faces. Even Petra looks scared, and I sigh. Fine. I’ll go home, even if I’m perfectly okay.
2
Randall
I splash cold water on my face, but I’m still as exhausted as I was before.
The sleeves of my white lab coat are drenched in water, clinging to my wrists as I turn the faucet off, the steady flow of cold water halting as the room fills with silence. I revel in the stillness, so quiet that I could hear a pin drop. There’s no beeping, no shouting, and no sense of urgency. It’s just peaceful; it’s a safe haven in the midst of pandemonium.
After all, beyond this private bathroom’s white door is utter chaos. There are terminally ill patients; screaming family members; stressed and anxious nurses; and doctors at wit’s end. I’m one of those doctors. I’m hopeful that there will be a solution to a patient’s health problem, but worried that admittance to the hospital will lead to something even more serious than I’m mentally equipped to deal with.
Usually, I’m good under stress. I’m generally calm and collected as I assess an issue and handle it with ease and care. Send in a patient with a tree branch sticking out of his arm and blood spurting from the site, and I can address it without a single bead of sweat on my forehead. But telling someone there’s nothing we can do for this patient, breaking that terrible, heart-wrenching news to families is what shatters me. I generally leave the “bad news talk” to other physicians on staff because I hate seeing the look of despair in a family member’s eyes.
Now though, I’m utterly exhausted. I scrub my face, my shoulders sagging. Although the emergency room is always a bit slow in Camdale, we get random rushes of sick patients who demand to be seen immediately and then, the work begins to pile up. I’ve been here for so long, I don’t even remember what time I got here. I think it was sometime yesterday morning because I have a memory of a sunrise in the back of my brain. Then again, that could have been the day before last, or last week even. Everything is beginning to run together after too many hours on the job.