Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80052 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80052 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Thank god.
“What does all that mean for us? Staff?”
“We’ll have you all remain in the hotel for the time being. No point in moving anyone until we get a better handle on the situation. It’s easier to just keep things as they are.”
“So . . . roomies for another day then? Interesting . . .”
He thinks I’m funny, I know it. There’s a smile in that gaze. A little curl to those lips.
“I thought we did pretty good, don’t you? No bloodshed. I mean, I didn’t wake up handcuffed to the bed, so that’s a plus.”
His eyes narrow in amusement. “Where does your brain come up with this stuff?”
“I don’t know. I read a lot as a kid.”
He nods like this might explain things.
Then he pushes off the dresser and takes his coffee. “Lucky for you, I’ll be gone most of the day. You’ll have the room to yourself.”
I frown. “I’ll be gone, too, won’t I? Aren’t you going to put me to work?”
Turns out, I should have just accepted the day off.
Originally, Cole wasn’t going to have me go downstairs and clock in. For now, resort operations have temporarily ceased. Activities, excursions, the dog and pony show—yeah, it’ll have to pause for the day as everything gets sorted out. Camila, Lara? They’re holed up in their room watching a movie marathon. They texted me a picture of a bowl of popcorn with Notting Hill in the background. I mean, classic Julia Roberts? Say no more!
Meanwhile, where am I?
I’m playing triage nurse for Dr. Missick.
No scrubs or sensible clogs for me. I have a clipboard and piece of paper on which I write down every person who walks into Dr. Missick’s waiting room, and from there, I have to decide where they rank in terms of least concerning injury to most concerning injury.
Why is this necessary, you might ask?
The preppers.
Yes, oh yes. While the rest of us were lying low for the last twenty-four hours, they’ve apparently been having a field day.
Why take it easy in the safety of a hotel room when you can throw yourself full force at danger and then come crying to the resort doctor (a.k.a. Mommy) when you accidentally hurt yourself?
I’m honestly shocked by how many injuries there are.
Let’s go down the list, shall we?
There’s the guy with a herniated disc from chopping up palm trees for hut building.
Oh, or how about the man who went out in the floodwaters to “hunt and gather” and wound up getting bitten by a snake?
More?
Okay. There’s a case of bacterial gastroenteritis in the guy with the knockoff LifeStraw. (“It was the zero point zero one percent that must’ve got me.”)
Currently, I’m sitting across from a guy as he explains that he went out into the storm last night because he wanted to test how windy it was, and while he was out there, he got whacked in the head with a heavy palm leaf. He’s complaining that he can’t hear out of his left ear at all.
“Could you speak up?!” he asks me as I go through the intake forms.
Instead, I speak softer and then act seriously concerned when he can’t hear me. Oh dear, it’s worse than we thought.
These guys just keep coming.
By the time I get my thirty-minute lunch break, we’ve run out of chairs.
I escape while I can. After all, Dr. Missick needs lunch too. My intention is to go directly to the cafeteria, but my feet lead me astray. I take a turn around the lobby; then I poke around the side hallways, acting casual about the fact that I’m doing a thorough search for Cole. I don’t have anything I need to tell him. I guess I just . . . miss him. Oh dear. Maybe I should put my own name down on Dr. Missick’s triage list.
Twenty-five-year-old female presenting with a case of lovesickness.
Proposed treatment plan? Unknown.
I don’t even end up finding Cole, which leaves me feeling like a deflated balloon for exactly how long it takes me to get back to the clinic to find the waiting room filled with hotel guests, and then I’m too distracted to care.
Dr. Missick and I bond like two enemy soldiers on the battlefield. At the start of the day, we were adversaries. I was his last resort when I showed up this morning, offering my services. He very nearly turned me away altogether. “You know what? I’ll manage fine on my own.”
But as the day wears on and it becomes an “us versus them” situation, we learn to stick together.
Close to 4:00 p.m., he sends a patient out of his exam room and then calls me in. He’s sitting on his stool, shoulders slightly slumped as he disposes of his nylon gloves in the nearly overflowing trash can nearby.
“How many more?” he asks, not bothering to hide the fatigue in his tone.