Chapter 6
Regan
After knocking, just like he asked earlier, I stride into the office with my notebook in hand.
“I’ve checked in with all the patients and have notes ready for you,” I say.
Dr. Harrison sits behind his desk, coffee in one hand, while the other ceases skimming a thick paper chart as he looks up at me. “You’re early.”
“I like being prepared,” I reply, sliding into the chair across from him. “Ready for rounds?”
He sets the chart down with a soft thud and leans back, fingers steepled. “Impress me.”
The challenge in his voice makes my spine straighten. “Gemma in Room 9, a five-year-old with recurrent UTIs. Her cultures keep coming back with the same resistant E. Coli strain.”
His eyebrow lifts slightly. “And?”
“And I ordered a VCUG X-ray this morning. Her voiding pattern suggests vesicoureteral reflux, which would explain the recurring infections despite proper antibiotic courses.” I don’t look down at my notes; I don't need to.
“I suggest starting her on a preventative medication pending imaging results.”
He leans forward, picking up his pen, interested now.
“The ten-year-old in Room 18,” I continue, turning the page. “Open tibial fracture from a horse-riding accident, now post-op day three with high wound draining.”
“Go on.” His pen taps the desk now and then, but when I say something he agrees with, the tapping stops. He gives the smallest nod, shifting in his seat just a little. He never says it out loud, but I know I’ve got his approval, and it encourages me to go on.
“Her white count is elevated, but her pain level is decreasing. The drainage looks like pus, but cultures are still pending,” I say, meeting his gaze, which is focused and makes my pulse quicken.
“I’m thinking superficial wound infection rather than bone involvement.
I recommend we should start her on antibiotics and order an MRI to rule out deep tissue migration. ”
Something travels through his expression. “Care to explain?”
“No fever spikes, inflammation markers down rather than up.” I flip to my next note. “If it were osteomyelitis, I’d expect her to look sicker by now.”
He makes a note. “Next.”
We move through a few more patients with precision, and something almost like a rhythm takes over. No wasted words. Just two people speaking the same medical language. It’s not warm, exactly, but it isn’t cold either.
Then he stands abruptly, and I do the same. “Thanks to your thoroughness, I now have about fifteen new orders to write, three consults to call, and a very unhappy radiology department.”
He walks out to the corridor, where I follow him, biting back a smile. “You’re welcome.”
The door shuts behind us.
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“Are you sure? Sounded like one to me.” I match his pace as we walk to the ward.
“I haven’t even finished. I still have to update you on Room 12.”
“Next time, maybe space out your findings. My day just became significantly busier.”
“I’ll try to be less competent next time.”
We pause at the nurses’ station. “Don’t you dare. Now tell me about Room 12.” He reaches for the next chart, and so do I, our fingers brushing briefly. I don’t let myself react, but the contact sparks something small and stupid in my chest.
“Shaina,” I say, eyes on the file, “had two more seizures overnight. The medication isn’t holding. I recommend we shift to sedative support.”
The temperature in the room drops.
He stiffens beside me. His jaw tics as he flips through the chart again, slower this time. I expect pushback, and I’m prepared to walk him through my reasoning step by step if I have to. “We’ll increase the dose.”
I glance up. “We’ve already doubled it once.”
“Then we monitor,” he says, voice clipped. “No sedation.”
The edge in his tone is new. I can’t shake the feeling that this moment is saying more than either of us is willing to admit.
I’ve read a case study about it. And there’s something about the way he’s refusing that doesn’t sit right with me.
It’s not medical caution; it’s personal resistance.
Whatever his reason, Shaina’s safety can’t be secondary to it. I won’t let it be.
“Are you overriding my recommendation?” I plant my hands on the nurses’ station counter just outside the room, heart pounding from rising adrenaline.
Harrison doesn’t even glance up. Just keeps writing into the chart like he hasn’t thrown away everything I just said in front of three nurses and an intern. “Yes. Because it’s premature.”
“But the longer we wait, the worse the episodes could get,” I argue.
His eyes finally snap to mine, and there's that damn steel in them again, the same stubborn, unwavering force that makes him so good and so impossible. “This isn’t about being right. It’s about being sure.”
“I am sure.”
He exhales through his nose, making his nostrils flare, and pushes away from the counter, lowering the chart with a deliberate thud. “You’re still seeing this like a puzzle to solve. These aren’t academic cases. These are real kids. You don’t just throw solutions at them and hope something sticks.”
I flinch, and he sees it. I hate that he sees it.
His Adam’s apple bobs like he regrets it, but he doesn’t take it back.
He turns and walks off, leaving me boiling in silence. The nurse gives me a wide-eyed look before quietly excusing herself. Smart girl.