* * *

Lily unlocked the clinic front door a little before six and picked up an envelope just inside the door with her name on it. She opened it and pulled out the single sheet of folded paper as she turned on the lights in the treatment rooms.

Lil, she read, in Sarah’s neat block printing. Here’s a roster of campers by name, age, and cabin. Files in computer by folder dated this month have pertinent medical history as provided by parents. The campers may or may not know or be willing to tell you if they have any health-related issues. Parents did not flag any health concerns on prelim applications. Only Marty Riley, cabin 8, and Canto Kim in 2 take Rx meds—parents signed waiver allowing camper to bring and take their own meds.

Sorry I couldn’t go over this with you in person—usual first day snafus. Text me if you have probs – S.

The password to the computer is TLR!#mtn10

Lily scanned the list. Not a great start to her first day. She should have thought to ask for the campers’ medical profiles yesterday afternoon. Just because they were young did not mean they were illness free, mentally or physically, and she was responsible for their well-being. She hadn’t thought about primary care in forever, and not cutting herself any slack, she hadn’t really thought very hard about what this job might require. She’d fallen a little too comfortably for Sarah’s hard sell of no stress, no emergencies, and no unpredictable hours for three months. She’d needed so badly to get out of Manhattan, to get away from the ER and leave the pressure and self-recriminations behind, that she hadn’t prepared for her new job.

Had she really drifted so far from who she once was and everything she prided herself on? Only if she let that be true. With a long breath, she settled in the chair, typed in the password, and pulled up the folder with the health forms. She needed to see all the information for herself. Predictably, not all the campers had routine health histories.

Giovanna—Ford—Langford was allergic to bee stings. She should be carrying an EpiPen at all times. Lily, who’d never given up the habit of jotting notes to herself on paper, found a pen and made a list on the back of the roster. She’d track down Ford after clinic and ask her about that. Jeremy Ridgefield had a history of asthma, although he didn’t take any medications. Another note—did she have a nebulizer, albuterol, Decadron, and the other meds she might need for an acute attack? Who knew what lurked in the forest that might trigger an attack—mold, or moss—was moss a mold?—and likely all kinds of other pulmonary irritants. Canto Kim took Imuran for control of pediatric Crohn’s disease. No note on special diet for him, but she’d check with him. And Marty Riley, cabin eight, took Prozac.

A red flag flew up Lily’s mental flagpole and snapped in the breeze. She knew from the psych consultations she’d gotten for troubled kids in the ER that Prozac was generally prescribed for serious depression in teens. Damn it—the parents didn’t think that warranted a health alert on the application? She found no indication in the past medical history section of any in-hospital treatment, but these health forms were only as complete as what the families supplied. And many patients, or parents of patients, did not want to disclose mental health problems.