4. Catch & Release
Chapter four
Catch & Release
By seven-forty, Doc is already in the clinic.
Again.
His car is in the staff lot when I pull in, and the sight of it annoys me before I even shut off my engine. Parked neatly. Taking up space with the same calm entitlement as the man who owns it.
I sit in my car for one extra breath and grip the wheel.
Art used to get here early too.
That thought has teeth, so I get out before it can bite deeper.
I go in through the side entrance. The hallway lights are already on. I stop inside, backpack on my shoulder, lunch bag in hand, and listen to the faint sound of cabinet doors opening and closing somewhere down the hall.
He’s in my, I mean technically, his clinic.
My hand tightens around my lunch bag.
“Good morning,” Doc calls from somewhere near storage.
I hate that his voice carries easily through the place. Like he belongs here. Like the walls have already decided to accept him.
“Morning,” I call back begrudgingly.
I drop my things behind the desk, flip the front lights on, and start the routine I’ve done hundreds of times. Check messages. Turn on the front computer. Pull the appointment list. Unlock the file cabinet. Sort yesterday’s notes.
Start the coffee in the tiny break room, since my survival now depends on caffeine and divine intervention.
Doc appears at the hallway entrance, white coat open over a light blue shirt and his stethoscope around his neck.
William “Doc” Bie, MD.
Why the hell does the embroidery irritate almost as much as the man?
“I found the extra blood pressure cuffs,” he says.
“They were labeled.”
“They were. I’m getting a sense of the layout.”
“Great. Try not to rearrange it before eight.”
He smiles. “I’ll contain myself.”
“I seriously doubt that.”
He takes the hit without pushing back, which is also irritating. A man should have the decency to be offended when I’m trying to offend him.
The first call comes in just before eight.
Mrs. Nicholson needs to reschedule her blood work because her grandson’s ferry plans changed.
Then Mara Tremblay calls about Suzy having a rash that may or may not be from glitter makeup, blackberries, or one of the twins using laundry detergent to make “bath slime.”
By eight-ten, the day is in full swing. Mr. Keller is our first patient.
He limps in with exaggerated dignity. He’s obviously ignored good advice and now needs help.
“You called,” I say as I come around the counter. “Which means the ankle got worse.”
He looks offended. “It got more interesting.”
Doc steps into the reception area behind me. “You must be Mr. Keller.”
Mr. Keller glances from Doc to me. “And you must be the new doctor.”
“Yes,” I say. “This is Dr. Bie.”
“Doc is fine,” Doc adds.
Mr. Keller looks him over. “You the one who took out Mrs. Weaver’s berries?”
A smile tries to break loose from me. I crush it.
Doc nods once. “My reputation is traveling fast.”
“This town doesn’t waste a good story.”
“Unfortunately for me.” He turns and nods down the hall. “Annie, let’s get him into room three.”
Mr. Keller starts in that direction, then pauses. “Room three? I thought that was for old people.”
“Not old. Decrepit. You injured yourself stepping off a curb and waited two days to come in for help,” I tell him. “Make peace with the room.”
Doc coughs into his fist.
Mr. Keller grumbles but heads to the room. I take his vitals and start the history. Doc listens from near the counter without interrupting. He asks questions after I finish.
“How far could you walk yesterday?”
Mr. Keller shifts on the exam table. “Far enough.”
“That answer tells me nothing useful.”
I glance down at my chart to hide my reaction.
Mr. Keller points at him. “You sound like her.”
“Then I’m off to a strong start.”
He checks the ankle with careful hands. No rush. No patronizing tone. He explains what he’s doing before he does it, gives Mr. Keller a second when something hurts, and asks about stairs at home before recommending a brace.
I expect him to miss the obvious.
He doesn’t.
“You live in the blue house off Coveland?” Doc asks.
Mr. Keller’s eyebrows lift. “How’d you know that?”
“Annie noted it in your chart. Front steps, no rail on the left side, and you don’t like using the back entrance.”
Mr. Keller gives me a betrayed look. “You wrote that down?”
“I write many things down.”
Doc reaches for the rolling stool and sits, bringing himself closer to eye level. “You can keep pretending this is minor and lose a week to being stubborn, or you can use the brace, ice it, and avoid stairs where possible for forty-eight hours.”
Mr. Keller looks at me.
I nod. “He’s right.”
He sighs. “Art would’ve said the same thing.”
Doc smiles and stands. He shakes Mr. Keller’s hand. “Okay, my friend. We’re here if anything changes. Don’t wait two days to tell us. Agreed?”
Grumpy Mr. Keller shakes on it and leaves with a brace and an expression that is more at ease now.
I did not see that coming.
Doc strips off his gloves. “You added the house note?”
“Art did first. I updated it after Martha died.”
He looks up.
“Mr. Keller hates the back entrance because that’s where Martha used to do her gardening,” I say, moving to reset the room. “So, he's going to use the front steps, rail or no rail.”
“That’s useful information.” Doc watches me for a second. “Thank you.”
I yank fresh paper across the table.
“But it’s useful and hard to search if it only exists as a handwritten note in one chart.”
I turn slowly to face him. This is his first tug at one of Art’s threads.
“Art knew where to look.”
“I’m sure he did.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“The problem is that I don’t.” Doc tosses his gloves and leans a hip against the counter. “If you were out sick tomorrow, I wouldn’t know which details are critical and which are history. There are notes written in a little box, in the margins of charts, and on Post- it notes.”
“I don’t get sick.”
“Everyone gets sick.”
“Doctors always say that.”
“We do love the classics.”
I hate him for being calm. I hate him more for having a point.
“Art’s files worked,” I say.
“Yes, they did. For Art.” He says it simply. No edge. No lecture.
It makes me want to climb the walls, or box his ears.
Maybe both.
He gestures toward the chart. “I’m proposing a way to preserve the knowledge and make sure it doesn’t disappear just because the right person isn’t in the room.”
The right person.
I look down at the chart, at Art’s handwriting in the margin, my note beneath it.
This clinic is full of Art’s handwriting.
Some days, it’s the only proof I have that he was ever here.
“The file system is what it is,” I say. “If you want to change it, then change it.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you will.”
“Probably. Eventually.”
My gaze snaps up.
He doesn’t flinch. “Paper charts get lost. Notes get buried. Follow-ups can slip. You know this town better than any software ever will. That doesn’t mean the system can’t help carry some of the load.”
I open my mouth.
The phone rings.
Saved by Suzy’s rash.
I leave him and answer the call before I say something that costs me my job.
By ten thirty, the clinic is deep in its rhythm.
Our next patient is Mrs. Nguyen, who arrives with dizziness she insists is “probably nothing,” which means it isn’t nothing. I know her. She downplays everything until it becomes a real problem.
Doc asks the normal intake questions. His voice stays even. His questions are direct. His hands move confidently.
I stand near the counter, watching him check her pupils, then her pulse. His sleeves are pushed up, exposing strong forearms with a few pale scars and dark hair dusted over tanned skin.
He reaches past me for the otoscope, and for one ridiculous second, I notice the size of him in the room.
Tall. Broad. Controlled.
The white coat pulls across his shoulders when he turns back to Mrs. Nguyen, and some traitorous part of my brain chooses that moment to acknowledge that William Bie is not merely an irritating Boston doctor with a berry-related criminal history.
He is also a very large, very attractive man with very capable hands.
Absolutely unacceptable.
“Annie?”
I blink.
Doc is watching me.
Mrs. Nguyen is watching me too.
Wonderful.
“Yes?”
“Do you know if Mrs. Nguyen has had trouble tolerating the higher dose before?”
“Yes.” I step toward the chart and recover my brain. “Art tried it last spring and she felt dizzy then too.”
Mrs. Nguyen presses her lips together.
Doc doesn’t make the med change without asking me what Art had done last time. He doesn’t treat my memory of her history like an inconvenience. He uses it, then explains the plan to Mrs. Nguyen in a way she understands.
We schedule a follow-up call tomorrow morning.
At lunch, I eat half a sandwich at the front desk while Doc stands beside the supply cabinet with a clipboard.
“Do we have a standing supply order?”
I swallow. “For what?”
“Basic consumables. Gloves, paper, gauze, syringes, alcohol pads.”
“Some. Depends.”
“On?”
I take another bite and make him wait while I chew. “Usage. Whether Mrs. Harper has been in with her grandkids. They go through tongue depressors like kindling.”
He writes that down too.
“Do you write down everything?” I ask.
“Only the things I need to remember.”
“Try using your brain.”
“I do. It’s the thing telling me to write this down.”
I hate that a laugh tries to escape. I trap it behind my sandwich and nearly choke.
He looks up. “You all right?”
“Fine,” I cough, lying.
“Very convincing.”
“Order sheets are in the bottom drawer behind the desk. But the vendor list is outdated. Art hated the new rep from Cascade, so he kept ordering through the old one, who retired six months ago.
We use Northline for most wound-care supplies now, but they’re slower. If you need anything fast, call Paula at the pharmacy. She can usually help, but don’t abuse it or she’ll block the number.”
Doc’s pen moves.
I scowl. “And don’t write Paula’s direct number anywhere patients can see it.”
“Annie.”
“What?”
“Thank you.”
I hate that too.