“He figured,” I repeat, trying as hard as I can to keep the alarm out of my voice since it looks like she could drop the baby any second, and I don’t want to upset her. “He didn't run any tests?”

Lucinda shrugs. “He said I am under thirty, and I do not do drugs, so there is not any reason to make a big fuss about it.”

“Okay, what?” I squint my eyes. “Proper prenatal care isn’t a big fuss. It's a necessity.”

Lucinda shrugs again. “I don’t know. Maybe you should tell Dr. Johnny that.”

That’s exactly what I plan to do. But when we reach the medical trailer, we find Dr. Johnny snoring loudly in a bed I’m pretty sure is meant for patients.

Though, who knows? The space is so cluttered with things that have nothing to do with medicine, it looks like he might also be living here. I step over dirty clothes and a sea of empty beer cans to shake awake the gray-haired man with a big beer belly.

He comes awake with an angry, “What the….”

But at least he doesn’t pull a gun. He sits all the way up in bed and rubs his eyes when he sees Lucinda standing behind me. “Fuck, Luci, you about to drop this baby?”

“No, I am fine, thank you for asking,” Lucinda answers. Her voice is a lot kinder than mine would’ve been under the circumstances.

“Thank fuck. I got a hell of a hangover,” he says with a self-pitying groan.

Then he peers up at me from underneath his shaggy gray hair. “Who the hell are you?”

“She is your new nurse,” Lucinda says helpfully since I’m too speechless by his lack of professionalism to answer. “Waylon told me to bring her by.”

He looks me up and down, then says, “Nope. Nope, you’re going to have to come back another time, sweetheart. I’m too hungover to deal with Waylon's piece of pussy thinking she’s going to assist me today.”

I glare at him. “Excuse me? Sir, I am a nurse practitioner. Can I ask, where exactly you got your medical degree?”

He sneers. “I had on-the-job training in the Army. Three tours—ending with the Gulf War, thank you very fucking much. I don’t need no fancy degrees.”

I blink, then translate, “So you were an Army medic back in the 90s? Have you ever worked at a hospital or even a real clinic? Or with women?”

“Hell no,” he replies as if answering yes to any of those questions would be an insult to his values. “And I’ve been the club doctor for years with no complaints.”

“I'm assuming that's because anybody who would’ve complained is dead,” I answer.