3. Collision #3
I wish I could pull the word back the second it leaves my mouth. Died.
She pauses, swallows hard, and continues. “Yes,” she says. “I have one.”
“I would like to see it.”
“I assumed you would want the billing records first.”
“I will need those eventually, but patients first.”
She looks me over with a judgmental stare. “Fine.”
We continue through storage. She briefs me where supplies are, what is backordered, which vendor has been unreliable, and which cabinet door sticks unless you lift before pulling. She mentions lab pickup and the pharmacy that answers fastest.
By the time the front door opens at eight, I have learned more from Annie in twenty-five minutes than I learned from three inches of acquisition paperwork.
A bell over the front door chimes softly. Annie’s head turns before mine does.
“Mrs. Bellamy,” she calls. Her voice changes, slipping easily into genuine patient-care mode. “You’re early.”
“I know, dear.” An older woman’s voice comes from the waiting room. “Richard drove me. He thinks early means virtuous.”
“It means we had to stop for gas,” a man grumbles.
Annie heads to reception. I follow at a reasonable distance.
Mr. Bellamy sits in one of the chairs, purse clasped in both hands, silver hair neatly combed back, pretending not to be worried.
Mrs. Bellamy looks at me first, then Annie.
Her hands clasp together tightly as she rests them on the desk.
New doctor. Unknown quantity.
Annie steps beside the counter. “Mrs. Bellamy, this is Dr. William Bie. Dr. Bie, this is Mrs. Bellamy, and that is her husband, Richard.”
I walk over and offer my hand. “Good morning, sir.”
Richard takes it first. “Doctor.”
“Please, everyone calls me Doc.”
Mrs. Bellamy gives me a polite smile. “Dr. Painter always came out when Richard had trouble after the surgery.”
“I heard he took excellent care of you both,” I say.
Annie glances at me.
Mrs. Bellamy’s eyes dampen before she blinks it away. “He did.”
I don’t rush to fill the space.
That’s hard for physicians sometimes. We’re trained to move the appointment along, gather history, establish a plan, preserve the schedule. Keep the line moving.
But for me, it has almost always been wrong.
Finally, Mrs. Bellamy inhales and turns toward Annie. “It’s my knee today. Not Richard.”
“I figured,” Annie says. “You were favoring it when you came in.”
Annie picks up the clipboard, then looks at me. “Where to, doctor?”
She’s testing me.
“Room three,” I say. Of course room three. The lower table.
Nice try, Annie.
Annie brings them back. In the exam room, she takes vitals with practiced ease and a running commentary that keeps Mrs. Bellamy from turning anxious. She asks about swelling, walking, stairs, sleep, and whether Richard has been hovering.
“He calls it helping,” Mrs. Bellamy says.
“It is helping,” Richard protests.
Annie writes something down. “Hovering with snacks is still hovering.”
Richard points at her. “You sound exactly like Art.”
Annie’s hand pauses writing for a quick second. I notice.
Then she finishes the note and turns to me. “Dr. Bie?”
She gives me the room. Patient first. Ego nowhere.
Good.
I examine Mrs. Bellamy’s knee, ask questions, test range of motion, check swelling. Nothing about it screams emergency. An arthritis flare aggravated by too much activity.
I explain what I think in plain terms and watch Mrs. Bellamy’s face as I do it. She listens, but her gaze flicks to Annie twice.
Not asking for permission. Asking for confirmation.
Annie nods both times.
That tells me a lot.
I can write prescriptions, order imaging, diagnose, treat, reassure, and manage care. But in this town, in this room, Annie Lockhart is the bridge between what Dr. Painter built and what I hope to build next.
When the Bellamys leave with instructions, a brace recommendation, and Richard under strict orders to limit her stairs, Annie walks them to the front.
I stay in the hallway, looking at the rooms again.
This practice does not come with a blank slate.
It comes with ghosts. Habits. And trust I need to earn.
And Annie Lockhart.
Especially Annie.
She comes back from reception holding the high-risk list she promised. Three pages, handwritten, color-coded, and worn at the edges.
She holds it out.
I take it carefully. “Thank you.”
For a moment, neither of us moves.
Then the phone rings, and she turns away from me. The day has officially begun, and any fragile truce we almost found has been declared irrelevant.
“Coupeville Family Medical,” she answers, all competence again. “This is Annie.”
I look down at the list in my hand.
Names. Conditions. Notes. Lives compressed neatly into ink.
My first real challenge in Coupeville is not the schedule, the records, or the fact that I have already made an enemy out of the one woman who knows where every useful thing is kept.
No, it’s earning my way into a place that was loved and respected by a man I wish I’d had a chance to have known.
And judging by the look Annie Lockhart gives me over the top of the reception counter, she plans to make me earn every damn inch.