“Thanks. I hope you don’t feel like you have to just say that, though.”

It’s not that I think Brian is appeasing me so that I don’t start to cry or get too emotional while we have a hundred-mile car ride back to the city on our hands. I just want to be sure he’s not walking on eggshells unnecessarily. Plenty of people have told me over the years that I did the right thing simply because they thought voicing any alternate opinion would upset me. The thing is, I was already upset.

He pivots his body toward me and sets down the olive oil this-or-that.

“You asked me a loaded question and now I gave you a loaded answer. We both know the chance that Decker would have ended up like the guy you saw at the bar was less than 1 percent. Have you forgotten what Dr. Brandt told you that day?”

How could I ever?

“Take it from me—Dr. Josef R. Brandt is one of the best trauma doctors in the country,” he continues on. “I’ve read a million of his medical journals and seen him speak dozens of times. I don’t think he was bluffing when he gave you those recovery odds.”

Brian moves his arm to around my shoulder and pulls me in for a hug. I can feel his fingers swirl through the kink in my hair left from last night’s rubber band. Then I swear, though I can’t be sure, he sweetly kisses the top of my head.

“Stop spiraling, Char. Listen. I know I haven’t been there to remind you over these last five years, but no part of what happened to him is your fault. It was just a bad accident. That’s all it was. Decker was a healthy guy. There’s no reason for this to have happened to him. You had nothing to do with it. You were just the only one brave enough to do the right thing with him in the end, and that’s the bottom line.”

I didn’t intend to get emotional because of his answer. I just wanted his friendly medical opinion. But the times that I’m ever physically in the proximity of people who have my back and support my decision 100 percent are so few and far between that my eyes well up a bit. I wipe at them before a full-blown tear can transpire and trickle down my cheek, but I think Brian’s already on to me. And so, just like I’m sure he does with his youngest patients before jabbing them in the arm with a shot, he goes into distraction mode to help me feel better.

“Hey, let’s check this booth out,” he says, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward a face painting station. “I want to do it.”

“Really? Don’t you think we’re a little old for this?”

“Maybe. But I also think the kids I see tonight during rounds would absolutely love it if their doctor has a face painted like a leopard. How much is it?” he asks the vendor.