Chapter Two The Boy With the T-Rex
Jennie watched the great Dr. Lin Xing — a man who could charm any child in the building — get completely stonewalled by a six-year-old.
It was, without question, the funniest thing she’d seen all week.
She bit her lip. She tried not to smile.
She failed. Lin Xing turned. Caught her mid-grin.
“Something amusing, Dr. Jennie?” “No, sir. Absolutely not, sir.” She cleared her throat.
“May I try?” “By all means.” It came out like a dare.
Jennie didn’t crouch by the bed. Didn’t say Tommy’s name. She pulled up a chair. Sat down. Folded her arms exactly like his. Then glared at the T-Rex sticking out of the blanket fort. “You,” she said coldly, “and I need to talk.”
Sixty seconds later. Exam complete. Chest, ears, throat — Tommy sat through all of it glaring at the T-Rex, making sure it witnessed every second of his bravery.
“Verdict,” Jennie announced. “Bravest heart on the floor. Possibly in Canada.” Tommy beamed.
“You can check him too,” he said, holding up the dinosaur.
“He’s sorry.” “Apology accepted.” She gave the T-Rex two seconds of stethoscope.
“Hmm. Heart’s fine. Attitude’s still concerning.
Keep an eye on him.” Tommy caught her sleeve before she could fully stand, suddenly serious.
“You’re my favorite doctor,” he informed her, with the total, unembarrassed conviction only a six-year-old could manage.
“That’s a very high honor. I accept.” Tommy’s giggle followed her all the way to the door — and just before it closed behind her, she heard him whisper to his mother, not quietly enough, “Can she come tomorrow too?” Jennie stood in the hallway for a second longer than necessary, something warm settling behind her ribs that had nothing to do with Dr. Lin Xing at all.
In the corridor, she finally looked at Dr. Lin Xing.
He studied her with an expression she couldn’t read.
Which, she was learning, was the only expression he owned.
Here it comes, she thought. “This is a hospital, not a circus, Dr. Jennie.” “You made him think he was winning,” he said instead.
“... Yes, sir.” “That’s not a trick anyone taught you.
” “No, sir.” A pause. “Good medicine,” he said, and walked into Room 14.
Jennie stood frozen in the hallway. “Emma,” she whispered.
“Emma. Did he just say good medicine?” “I heard it.” Emma pressed a hand to her chest. “Four years. FOUR YEARS I’ve worked here.
He’s said that maybe twice. Once was to a professor visiting from Geneva.
” “It was a toy dinosaur.” “Mm-hm.” Emma gave her a long, knowing look.
“Just a toy dinosaur. Just a full paragraph on day one. You keep collecting these ‘justs,’ Dr. Jennie. See where they add up.” “I have no idea what you’re implying, and I refuse to find out.
” Jennie walked into Room 14 after him, smiling so wide her cheeks hurt.
The apartment hunt, meanwhile, was going less well.
Saturday, viewing one. The “bright, spacious studio” shared a wall with a drum instructor.
Who taught daily. “Including Christmas,” said a hollow-eyed neighbor in the stairwell, in the voice of a man who had seen things.
Saturday, viewing two. Perfect apartment.
Perfect price. Fifteen minutes from the hospital.
Jennie was reaching for the application when the landlord mentioned, casually, that the last three tenants had “all left in a hurry. But don’t worry about that. ” “Don’t worry about what, exactly?”
“Exactly,” he said, nodding. Jennie also left in a hurry.
Sunday, after church — where she lit a candle and negotiated directly with God (Lord, I’m not asking for a miracle.
One bedroom. Working heat. No drummers. Amen) — viewing three lasted ninety seconds: a basement whose only window faced a brick wall from nine inches away, which the agent insisted “got great light in summer.” Jennie did not stay to find out.
That night, she called home. Her mother answered on the second ring, the way she always did, like she’d been sitting beside the phone since the day Jennie left India.
“Mol’e. You sound tired.” “I’m being defeated by Canadian real estate, Amma.
” “Come home, then. Plenty of room.” A pause.
“Your father turned your bedroom into his newspaper archive. But he can be evicted. He knows this.” From somewhere in the background, her father’s voice.
“I heard that. Tell her the newspapers stay.” Jennie laughed until her chest didn’t hurt anymore.
Twenty-two days left. Something would come. It always did.
Monday, 8:10 a.m. The staff lounge. “Update,” Sophia demanded, dropping into the chair beside her.
“The drum studio’s still available,” Jennie said, scrolling grimly.
“So is the murder apartment. And a new listing just appeared — genuinely nice, great location — and while I was reading it, it got taken. I watched it die in real time, Sophia. I witnessed it.” “My condolences.” “Twenty-two days. I’ll end up living in the on-call room.
Showering in the locker room. Eating gummy bears for dinner.
It’s fine. It’s fine.” “You could always take the haunted—” “I will report you to HR.”
They were both laughing — too loud, probably, for 8:10 on a Monday — when the room went quiet.
Dr. Lin Xing stood at the coffee machine.
Neither of them had heard him come in. He poured his coffee with the unhurried calm of a man who had absolutely, one hundred percent heard everything.
Jennie sat up so straight her spine cracked.
“Good morning, Dr. Lin Xing.” “Dr. Jennie.” He didn’t turn around.
“Rounds in twenty minutes.” “Yes, sir.” He picked up his cup.
Walked toward the door. Then stopped. One step from freedom.
“For the record,” he said, to the doorframe, in the exact tone he used to read lab results, “tenants of haunted apartments report fewer noise complaints.” He left.
Total silence. “Sophia,” Jennie said carefully.
“Did Dr. Ice just make a joke?” “I don’t know.
” Sophia was gripping the table. “I don’t know what that was.
I need to sit down.” “You are sitting down.” “I need to sit down more.” Jennie stared at the empty doorway, an entirely unauthorized smile spreading across her face.
Gotcha, she thought. You’re in there after all.
What Jennie didn’t know — couldn’t have known — was that three floors up, Dr. Lin Xing had closed his office door and sat at his immaculate desk without reading a single chart for a full minute.
He had made a joke. Out loud. In the staff lounge.
He reviewed the incident the way he reviewed a puzzling lab result.
Inconclusive. Unprecedented. Likely caused by insufficient sleep.
Then he opened his desk drawer for a pen — and found himself looking, instead, at a spare set of keys.
Keys to the second apartment he owned in his building.
Empty for two years. Never once considered for a tenant.
He looked at them for exactly four seconds.
Closed the drawer. Not my concern, he told himself, and went back to work. Dr. Lin Xing was right about nearly everything, nearly always. It was one of his defining qualities. He was about to discover the exception.