3. Collision
Chapter three
Collision
By seven-fifteen, this kitchen is starting to feel like we live here now.
The bread pops up pale and useless. Ellie leans against the counter in a plaid pair of shorts, pink socks, and a sweatshirt that says BOSTON in cracked white letters across the front, watching me with patient disappointment.
“First day at the clinic,” she says, “and breakfast is already in triage.”
“Really? Today is the day you decide to be a food critic?” I drop the slices back into the toaster and turn the dial to four.
She looks at the eggs, then the toast, then me. “Are you nervous, Dad?”
“No,” I fire off.
Her eyebrows rise. “Really?”
“Okay. A little,” I concede.
“Honesty. That’s better.”
“Why is my anxiety comforting to you?”
“Because it means you know you’re the new guy and won’t walk in there acting like a weird medical king.”
I pour coffee into a travel cup and decide there are several parenting manuals that failed to prepare me for being humbled over breakfast by a fourteen-year-old wearing pink socks.
“I’ve never acted like a weird medical king.”
“But you’ve never owned your own clinic before,” she says frankly. “So, even though you’re a nice guy, I don’t want to hear you went all Napoleon on them the first day.”
“Well, now I’m just hurt.” I pretend to pout, crossing my arms.
“Okay. Sorry. But Mom would tell you to chill out and just be yourself. So that is my advice too.”
Yes, she would have.
The thought slides into the kitchen with the morning light as Ellie pokes at her eggs with a fork.
It hurts, because thoughts of Beth always hurt, but they don’t knock me off course anymore.
I keep breathing. That’s what we’re trying to learn here.
How to make space for Beth without letting grief eat us alive every day.
“Thank you.” I lift my coffee.
Ellie reaches for her backpack near the table. “Erin said there’s a beach trail by Ebey’s Landing. She said it’s not too bad unless you’re allergic to hills.”
“Are you asking to go?”
“Maybe this weekend? Or after school sometime? If you’re not busy doing clinic kingdom stuff.”
She rolls her eyes, but she eats the toast. The fact that she mentioned Erin again is encouraging information. A friend. A place. A plan outside this kitchen. Coupeville is becoming more than the town where I moved us.
I keep my expression neutral. “We can look at the weather. Weekend might be great.”
“She said the bluff is cool.”
“Then we’ll definitely check it out.”
The ease in her voice is new. A month ago, every morning was a negotiation with silence. Here, the silence has started losing ground to small insults and practical questions. I’ll take that trade all day long.
“You need anything for school?”
“My backpack, my lunch, and for you to stay away from that farmers market unsupervised.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She grabs her lunch from the refrigerator and swings her backpack onto one shoulder, then grabs a banana from the counter. “Also, the porcupine story has become lore.”
“Ellie, no.”
“Hard yes.”
I point toward the door. “School.”
She salutes with the banana. “Good luck, Doctor King.”
“Out.”
She laughs and heads for the front hall, pauses long enough to shove her foot into the missing shoe.
“But seriously, Dad. Good luck today.”
The joke leaves her face and I see my kid underneath. The one who knows this day is more than a workday.
“Thanks, El.”
“And try not to start any incidents without me present to at least take pictures this time.”
“That was one time.”
“Your legacy is young.”
The door shuts behind her.
Through the front window, I watch her walk down the path toward the street. Ponytail swinging. Backpack crooked. She doesn’t look back, and I count that as a win.
I walk into the kitchen, grab my coffee, and go out to the deck. I rest my hand on the railing and look out over the water.
“Did you hear that, Beth?,” I say quietly. “She has a friend and asked about a trail. It’s a start, babe. It’s a start.”
I close my eyes, feel the breeze against my face, and can almost feel her with me.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Herc.
HERC: How the hell is the left coast treating you, Doc? You wearing flannel yet?
I huff and pick up the phone.
ME: Pacific Northwest. Not California. Say left coast again and I’ll have to make sure they only serve you kale in Fiji.
His reply comes fast.
HERC: I fly helos, brother. I’ll eat anything. How’s Ellie?
ME: Better than I expected. She asked about exploring a trail this morning.
HERC: Good. That’s forward progress. House coming together?
ME: Slowly. We are overtaking the boxes, so I’m considering it positive progress. First day at the clinic is today.
HERC: Need backup? I can send Herc-level charm. Terrifyingly effective. Minor property damage possible.
ME: Pass. I’ve caused enough local damage already.
HERC: That sounds ominous.
ME: It was at the farmer’s market, involving berries and a porcupine. Long story.
I expect a joke. He gives me one, but there’s care under it.
HERC: Do no harm, Doc. Includes produce. Call if the town forms a mob. I’ll bring Admiral and bail money.
I smile despite myself.
ME: You have bail money?
HERC: No. Admiral does. Go show that town how lucky they are.
The last text sits there, plain and brotherly. No emotional handholding. Just support.
ME: Thanks, man. Will talk to you soon. Say hello to Bella for me.
I pocket the phone, grab my bag, and leave before I can start talking myself into first-day jitters.
Coupeville Family Medical Clinic is a six-minute drive from the house. It sits on a corner with a small parking lot, a front ramp, and a modest sign. The building has the worn, practical look of a place expanded by need instead of ego.
Newer siding covers the addition on the right, with older brick along the other three sides. Flower beds out front. A handrail with fresh paint. Somebody has kept this place alive with care, not money.
I park in the small staff lot, cut the engine, and sit for one breath with my hand on the door handle.
First day.
My clinic.
The words should give me satisfaction. Instead, they sit there with more weight than I expected. I have owned houses, cars, retirement accounts, and more Navy uniforms than any sane man should keep.
But this is different. A medical practice of my own.
A practice with history. Trust. People who walk through the door scared and expect the person on the other side to know how to help them.
Dr. Arthur Painter had been that person here for decades.
Now it’s my building.
I get out, sling my bag over my shoulder, and walk to the side entrance. The keypad is mounted beside the door under a little metal cover. I lift it, enter the code from my lawyer’s packet of information, and wait for the lock to give.
It clicks.
No turning back now.
Inside, the clinic smells faintly of disinfectant, paper, and circulated air pushing through vents. It’s dim except for the light from the front windows. I stand there taking the building in.
Reception is straight ahead, small and efficient. A counter with a sign-in clipboard. A rack of pamphlets. The waiting room is across from it, clean and a little dated. Rows of chairs lined up with military precision.
I move slowly, not wanting to barge through the place like a conquering general. The hallway beyond reception leads to the clinical side. Exam rooms on the left.
Office door at the end. Storage to the right. The layout matches the documents, but paper never tells the truth about how a place actually feels.
I pass the first exam room and glance in.
Fresh paper on the table. Supplies lined up. Sharps container half-full but not neglected. Gloves stocked. Blood pressure cuffs hung in order.
No signs of a practice abandoned by grief. Someone has continued to care for this place.
I make it almost to the end of the hall when a dark-haired woman comes around the corner at full speed. We collide hard. She lets out a solid little grunt, bounces back one step, and catches the wall with her free hand.
Her folders go flying and paper cascades in every direction. I reach down to try to catch some, but it’s a lost cause. They scatter too wide.
“Are you okay?” I say automatically.
Her head snaps up. Dark hair. Blue eyes. Murderous recognition.
The porcupine.
This is the kind of luck I have these days.
Her gaze rakes over me, taking in my presence and the fact that I am standing in a clinical hallway before the practice is open.
“You,” she says.
Good morning to you too.
“Yep. Me,” I answer.
Her eyes narrow. “What are you doing here?”
I bend down slightly and start reaching for the scattered files. “At the moment, helping.”
“No,” she says. “At the moment, you are wandering through a medical clinic that has not opened yet.”
“I can explain.”
“Can you?” She snatches the recovered papers from my hands, pins them to her chest, then points down the hall with one sharp finger. “The waiting room is that way.”
I look where she points. Then back at her.
She is not wearing a name tag, but she does not need one. Every inch of her says she belongs here.
Annie Lockhart. Dr. Painter’s physician’s assistant.
Her hair is pulled back today. Her shirt is clean. There are no berries in sight.
“Patients are not allowed in the clinical area without being brought back by staff,” she continues. “Especially before opening. Especially before anyone has had coffee. And especially if the patient in question has a known history of causing property damage.”
She has no idea who I am. I have to bite the inside of my cheek.
She steps closer and grabs my elbow. “Move.”
She marches me down the hall, around the reception corner, and into the waiting room with the brisk authority of a woman removing a raccoon from a pantry.
“If you are here for an appointment, sign in. If you’re looking for the restroom, it’s right there.” She points to the narrow hallway beside reception. “If you are lost, leave.”
“Restroom,” I say, nodding in that direction. Her expression says she doubts even my bladder can be trusted.
She points. “Do not wander. Do not make me come in and get you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”