The anvil slams into my chest: the ache I’ve been avoiding, delayed by mantras and plans and an army of hypotheticals. Here he is, a terrorist in a cotton gown, holding his breath awaiting negative, secretly imagining positive, quietly burning. He is at my mercy. I could kill him or I could cry.

“Dr. Hart?”

The nerve. My God. The recklessness. My power simmers and shines, daring me to fight for this precious life I’ve built. For Christ’s sake, Bobby, take a stand.

“Is everything okay?” he asks.

In the space between inhale and exhale, the blood below Nick’s skin races to his brain, muscles, and heart, and he fades to pale, a side effect of a primitive reaction wasted on warriors who don’t fight with swords, spears, or claws. Instead, we sit in sterile rooms carving bullets out of silence, playing chicken with subtext. Taking matters into our own hands.

We shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be in this room with this kid (with his unspoiled body and Wintermint breath) who is tempting me to toy with malpractice, tempting me to slay my own giant with one word: positive.

“Couldn’t get a read,” I say, fingering the blood vial in my pocket. “We’ll send it to the main lab first thing tomorrow.” I hear myself say, “Try not to worry, everything is probably fine,” but the voice isn’t mine.

Leaving Nick to change into his clothes, I escape, once again, to the other side of this door, where my hopes for relief are swiftly pummeled by the buzz of an electric motor grinding to life: my Keurig. Someone is making coffee in my staff kitchen. I follow the grind, walking the length of this hall like I’m walking the damn plank: defiant, unapologetic, ready to plunge. But it’s just Simone hovering over the Keurig, holding the handle of a thermos, watching it fill. She doesn’t hear me when I hang my lab coat on a hook. The machine quiets. She turns and sees me now but is not startled. She simply smiles and asks, “Coffee?”

I shake my head. “Already fueled. What are you doing here on a Saturday?”

“Digging out of a paperwork avalanche. What are you doing?”

Down the hall, the door to Exam Room Four opens and closes with a bang. It’s too late to hide him, so I say, “Family favor,” just as Nick steps through the doorway.

Simone adjusts her posture from familiar to professional, the effect instantaneous and subtle, and greets Nick, who approaches to shake her hand.

“Nick Carpenter,” he says. “Jonah’s friend from school.”

“Simone Bristol.”

I shake my keys, tolling the end of our rendezvous, and tell Simone to hurry up and finish digging so she can enjoy the rest of her weekend.

She smiles and nods. “Nice meeting you, Nick.”