Anya
Our next interaction happened several hours later.
“Doctor Volkov,” Vaughn called from the workstation behind me. “Can I borrow your brain for a second?”
I turned, already halfway there. “What’s up?”
He had a chart open, one hand braced on the counter, the other tapping idly at the screen like it had offended him. “Forty-six-year-old male,” he said. “Acute abdominal pain. Guarding. Rigid on exam. Vitals are stable and his labs came back clean.”
My sleep-deprived brain snapped into focus. I leaned in, scanning the notes. “Where’s the pain?”
“Left lower quadrant.”
“That’s… annoying,” I murmured, scrunching my nose.
“Extremely,” Doctor Vaughn agreed. From the corner of my eye, I watched him straighten just a tick, crossing his arms.
I chewed on the inside of my cheek, desperate to make a good impression. “Fever?”
“No.”
“Rebound tenderness?” I was grasping at straws. Why would I be able to help if the night shift lead attending wasn’t able to figure it out?
“Minimal.”
I frowned, a little groan escaping me. “Imaging?”
“Pending,” he said. “But I don’t love ordering a CT if I don’t have to.”
I nodded, already building a differential. Diverticulitis. Obstruction. Something inflammatory. Something that would ruin everyone’s night. “Any record of bowel habits?” I asked.
His mouth twitched. “Patient complained of constipation,” he said. “No BM today. Or yesterday.”
I paused. Looked at the screen again. Then slowly looked at him. He was watching me now, completely disregarding the char in front of him. “Could it just be gas?” I said finally.
His grin broke free. “Thank you,” he said. “That’s what I thought.”
I stared at him, jaw slightly agape. “You knew.”
“I did.”
“Then why—”
“Because,” he said calmly, leaning back just enough to give me space and somehow make it worse, “I just wanted to see how you’d get there.”
I folded my arms. “You could’ve just said something.”
“Yes,” he said. “But this way, I got a second opinion. Which is very important.”
“On gas,” I deadpanned.
“On gas,” he confirmed, unrepentant.
I shook my head, fighting a smile. “You’re awful.”
“I’m thorough,” he corrected. “And you’re observant, even on your fourth night of nights.”
That did something to me. I felt it land, warm and unexpected. He turned back to the screen, still smiling faintly. “Let’s give him simethicone and see if he feels better. No CT. You good with that?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, that makes sense.”
“Good,” he said. Then, almost absently, “I’m glad I called you over.”
“Thank you, Doctor Vaughn.”
“Please call me Desmond.”
I walked away a moment later with my pulse just a little off, trying to convince myself that nothing had happened.
Nothing had.
But something had started.