Medical Center. Emergency Room.
A lone sunflower danced in the breeze atop dark soil.
"Heh," Adam let out a soft chuckle.
He glanced at the oblivious Zaun lunatic sprawled out there, then flashed a thumbs-up at Susan, who was barely holding back her laughter as she walked over.
Even a saint can get ticked off sometimes. Even the purest soul can show a playful spark. Susan, pushed to her breaking point and letting a little mischief slip out, felt more real—more human—than ever.
There are two ways to take someone's temperature. Piss off a doctor, though, and they'll make sure you get the most "precise" method. Who told you to be so heartless, so shameless, so downright obnoxious? And cold as ice, to boot?
That thought sparked a memory. In The Big Bang Theory, Howard didn't figure out until college that you could use your mouth to take a temperature. Growing up, his mom never gave him that option—didn't even hint it existed. So, when a nurse went to check his temp for the first time at university, he didn't open his mouth. Nope. He just dropped his pants and flopped down.
That mental image? Priceless.
Suddenly, Howard's mom, the lumbering Mrs. Wolowitz, sprang to life in Adam's mind, vivid and dynamic. Gamer brats like him? Time to face your mom's righteous smackdown!
"Dr. Duncan, the mothers of those two kids who were speeding are here," Nurse Carol said, walking up to Adam with a quiet urgency.
"Did you break the news about Larry's death?" Adam asked, his tone steady.
"Yeah," Carol replied, her expression drifting, like she was lost in thought.
"What's wrong?" Adam pressed, his voice softening with concern.
"It's Andy…" Carol hesitated, her words tangled in unease. "Before they wheeled him into surgery, he saw his best friend Larry die. He was terrified—shaking—and blurted out the truth. The car was Larry's, sure, but Andy was the one driving when it all went down."
"Right," Adam nodded. "We all heard him say it."
Then it clicked. His gaze sharpened. "Wait—he's telling people now that Larry was behind the wheel?"
"Mm-hmm," Carol murmured, almost to herself. "He told his mom it was Larry who blew through the red light. Said he begged Larry to stop, but Larry was all, 'I've got this.'"
"You're not gonna tell the cops about this?" Adam asked, eyeing her carefully.
"I don't know if it's my place," Carol said, shaking her head. "People come in here scared out of their minds, thinking they're done for. They spill stuff to us they wouldn't even tell their spouse or a priest. This kid—he laid his soul bare. It feels wrong to pass that on."
"You're not a priest," Adam said, his stare piercing. "He killed an innocent person out there on the street and got his friend killed too. Their souls are watching you just as much."
"…There's still doctor-patient confidentiality," Carol countered, her voice wavering with conflict.
"Alright, drop it. I'll handle it," Adam said, giving her a look before turning to walk away.
"Dr. Duncan, what are you gonna do?" Carol hurried after him, her steps quick. "Are you telling the police?"
"Same as you—nothing," Adam replied, pointing toward a middle-aged woman approaching, her face streaked with tears. "That's probably Larry's mom right there. Go talk to her, calm her down."
Doctor-patient confidentiality doesn't cover murder—that's fair game for the cops. But Adam wasn't about to go there. The whole point of confidentiality is to let patients trust the system, to keep things smooth between doctors and those they treat. Spill too much, and sure, people might nod along and say you followed the rules. But deep down? There's that flicker of resentment. What if they need something kept quiet someday?
Still, doing nothing—letting an innocent victim's death slide while the real killer walks free? That didn't sit right with Adam either. This wasn't a doctor's mess to clean up. Let the people whose job it is deal with it.
After a crash that bad, who was driving should've been obvious. But American cops? Their efficiency was a joke. The Black officer who'd rolled up to the scene and followed them to the hospital somehow didn't even know who'd been behind the wheel. Was he dense, lazy, or just playing dumb? Adam couldn't tell. Didn't matter. He had a way to light a fire under him and get the truth out easy.
"Kate, it's me," Adam said into his phone, stepping outside the hospital building to call a friend on the force.
She was a homicide detective, not traffic, but as a sharp, well-connected woman in the NYPD, she had pull. A quick word through her to nudge the officer in charge to actually do his job, and those glaring clues wouldn't stay buried.
The car was Larry's—a flashy sports car, no less. That alone said his family wasn't hurting for cash. If this blew open, who'd throw their weight around? Hard to say.
"Deal. I'll get you a signed copy before the new book drops," Adam said with a grin, agreeing to Kate's request.
He'd met Kate because she was a die-hard Lord of the Mysteries fan. At a New York signing, she'd sweet-talked her way backstage through the cops handling security and snagged an autograph in person. A good cop with a good heart—and a face to match. Adam figured it couldn't hurt to have a few police buddies. Never know when you might get pulled over and need a lifeline before things go sideways.
They'd swapped numbers. That was it. At least, that's all he could recall…
Phone call done, Adam headed back to the ER.
"Dr. Duncan!" John Carter bounded over, eager as a puppy. "I finished the stitches."
"What'd you use?" Adam asked, raising an eyebrow.
"4-0 absorbable subcutaneous suture," Carter shot back, his eyes practically begging for approval.
"Alright, let's see how you did," Adam said, stifling a laugh. He got it—the kid was like a student fishing for a gold star.
In the ward:
"Where'd he go?" Carter asked, confused.
"That middle-aged transgender patient? Probably hit the women's restroom," a nurse tossed out casually.
"He just got stitched up—he should be resting," Carter grumbled.
"That's it?" Adam turned to him, his tone firm but patient. "He's your patient. You're supposed to know where he is, what's going on with him. Stay on it."
"Yes, Dr. Duncan," Carter said, startled, nodding fast. "I'll find him."
Right then, a flurry of footsteps echoed down the hall.
"What's happening?"
"Someone's on the roof—about to jump!"
Adam didn't hesitate. He bolted for the stairs. Saving a life? That's why he was here.
"Oh my God!" Carter lagged a beat, then it hit him—his patient. Panic flared in his chest as he sprinted after Adam, legs pumping. "Please don't be my patient, please don't be my patient, please don't be my patient!"
When he stumbled onto the roof, breathless, he looked over and froze. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead. Of course it was her. Standing at the edge, arms spread wide like Rose from Titanic, was Ms. Carlton.
If he'd known it'd come to this, he would've acknowledged her as a woman, given her the respect she deserved, instead of brushing her off because of his own dumb biases. If she jumped now, that guilt would haunt him forever.