Chapter 9 #3
“It’s a splinter.” Noah raised his hand. “And I’d hardly call that bleeding.”
“A wound is a wound,” Simon replied. He straightened, already reaching for gloves. “Sit.”
“I don’t need—”
“Sit,” Simon repeated, in the same tone he probably used on all his stubborn patients.
Noah sat on the folding chair.
Simon knelt beside him with a sort of clinical elegance, his gloved fingers steady and confident. He examined Noah’s hand, his brow creasing slightly.
“Mapleford’s annual holiday festival,” Simon said dryly, “responsible for more minor injuries than the Fourth of July and the Harvest Parade combined.”
“So I’m contributing to tradition,” Noah said.
Simon looked at him over the rim of his glasses. “Do you always joke when you’re in pain?”
“Do you always diagnose personalities at first contact?” Noah countered.
Simon’s mouth twitched. “Occupational hazard, I’m afraid.” He angled Noah’s hand toward the fading light, his touch gentle but precise. “You should wear gloves when handling fresh pine,” he murmured.
“I was.”
Simon arched his eyebrows. “Clearly they’re not thick enough.”
“Oh my God,” Noah muttered. “You and Aileen should start a club.”
“We already did. Didn’t you know?” Simon’s eyes twinkled. “It’s called the We Keep You Alive Despite Yourself club.”
Noah snorted. “She’d love that.”
Simon produced a pair of tweezers and worked on the splinter with delicate efficiency. “This should only take a moment. Try not to move.”
Noah knew he was staring at Dr. Hale, even though he did his best not to.
Simon was different from most of Mapleford’s inhabitants.
It wasn’t that he was unfriendly or cold, more…
contained, like someone who’d learned to tuck away whole parts of himself behind tightly controlled lines and soft-spoken precision.
He looked weary, too. Not sleepy-tired, more like heart-tired.
“You’re new to all this,” Noah said in a light tone. “The festival, the chaos, the pine-inflicted injuries.”
“I’ve been here over a year,” Simon said without looking up. “Plenty of time to observe.”
“Yeah, but you still look a little startled every time we start wrapping buildings in garlands.”
“That’s because you insist on climbing on top of them,” Simon said with genuine exasperation. “You gave me heart palpitations last week.”
“That was a stable ladder.”
“That ladder was older than you.”
Noah blinked. “How do you know how old I am?”
Simon hesitated by a fraction, barely noticeable, but there.
“You grew up here,” he said simply.
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
Simon still didn’t look up. “You’re well-documented.”
Noah laughed. “I love that phrasing.”
Simon’s tone went matter-of-fact. “Everyone in this town brings you up in conversation. I’ve learned more about your childhood mishaps than I have about some of my patients’ medical histories.”
“Oh God.” Noah groaned. “Please tell me you didn’t hear about the candy-cane misadventure.”
Simon paused. “The one where you got your tongue stuck to a frozen metal pole?”
“NO.”
“Then yes,” Simon said calmly. “And will you please keep your hand still? This will only take longer if you fidget.”
Noah covered his face with his free hand. “I hate this town.”
“No, you don’t,” Simon said in a tone that surprised Noah with its quiet certainty.
Noah peeked through his fingers. “You’re right, I don’t.”
Simon removed the splinter with surgical neatness.
“There,” he said. “Clean.” He tugged off his gloves. “I’ll give you a small bandage. Keep it dry for the night.”
“You’re very good at your job,” Noah said.
“I should hope so.”
“You’re also very…” He searched for the word, but it found him before he found it. “…alone.”
Simon stilled, and the silence between them tightened, becoming thin, almost fragile. Simon’s face didn’t change, but something in his posture did. A subtle shift, a soft retreat.
“I prefer the term ‘self-contained,’” he said, his tone even but too careful.
Noah swallowed. “Sorry. That was too much.”
“It’s fine,” Simon said. “It was merely an observation.”
“Another occupational hazard,” Noah echoed softly.
Simon gave him the smallest, saddest smile he’d ever seen.
“Yes, exactly.” He stood and took a polite step back.
Professional distance re-engaged.
“You’re good to go,” he murmured.
Noah flexed his hand. “Thank you.”
Simon nodded. “Be careful tonight.”
“I’ll try.”
Simon turned toward the street, his coat collar high against the cold.
He paused beside the Christmas tree, the streetlights flickering against his glasses.
He looked up at it for a long moment, longer than Noah expected.
The expression on his face—bare, unguarded—made Noah’s chest ache without knowing why.
Then Simon walked into the snow alone, a solitary figure swallowed by twilight and falling flakes.
Noah watched him go, a strange heaviness settling in his chest.
He didn’t know what Simon’s story was—maybe no one in Mapleford did—but he knew one thing with unsettling clarity.
Simon Hale was carrying something, and he’d been carrying it alone for a long time.