Chapter 5 #3
“So no hike?” Tyler looked thrilled at his sister’s misfortune. “Can I have my tablet back tomorrow, then?”
“Well, that is something your mom has to decide.” Meg turned to him with mock sternness. “And you are going to be nice to your sister and not run ahead and make her try to keep up.” She tapped at the Jr. Ranger badge pinned to his shirt. “Rangers help each other on the trail.”
Tyler straightened, clearly taking the responsibility seriously. “I can do that.”
Meg handed Emma’s mom the after-visit summary. “Call if the fever spikes or if she’s not improving in a few days.”
After their mom bundled both kids out the door with instructions to rest and hydrate, Meg sat at the ancient desktop computer to update Emma’s chart.
But her fingers hovered over the keyboard without typing.
She thought of Emma’s worried face transforming into relief. Of Tyler’s earnest promise to be a good ranger. The way their mother had squeezed Meg’s hand and whispered, “Thank you,” on the way out. As if Meg had done something more than diagnose a common cold.
But she had done more, hadn’t she?
She’d given an anxious eight-year-old permission to rest without feeling like she was missing out. She’d turned a six-year-old’s potential chaos into an opportunity to be helpful. She’d made their day a little bit better.
You save people, Meggie. That’s what you do. That’s who you are. Her mother’s words echoed back. And for the first time since the call, Meg didn’t immediately push them away.
She did love this. Not just treating patients, but knowing them. Being part of their lives.
Emma and Tyler weren’t data points or case studies in a research journal.
They were real kids with Jr. Ranger badges and sibling squabbles and a hike they were hoping to take tomorrow.
Their mom wasn’t a research participant assigned a number—she was Sarah, who worked at the lodge’s gift shop and always brought homemade cookies to the ranger-station potlucks.
This was what she’d dreamed about in medical school. Working with people. Talking with patients. Connecting with communities.
Pennsylvania wouldn’t have this. Test tubes rather than individuals. Case numbers not names. Trial studies not relationships.
Penn State’s research lab would have data and controlled variables and published papers with her name in small print. It would be safe. Predictable. Manageable. Sterile.
In Pennsylvania, she wouldn’t know her patients’ names or watch kids grow up.
Wouldn’t see the elderly couple from the campground holding hands on their daily walks.
Wouldn’t be invited to ranger-station potlucks where everyone brought too much food and told stories that got more exaggerated with each telling.
She wouldn’t have Nimue dropping by with coffee and good conversation. Or Eden teasing her about her organizational systems.
Or Noah—
She cut off that thought before it could fully form.
But her mother’s question wouldn’t let go. Are you running toward good things or just away from hard things?
Meg stared at the computer screen. Emma’s chart still waited to be updated. Her chest tightened again. But this time it wasn’t panic.
It was something closer to grief, to mourning something she hadn’t lost yet.
Because she was running. She knew it now, sitting in this small clinic that smelled like pine cleaner and antiseptic. In this place she’d somehow fallen in love with despite every reason not to.
She was running from the fear that she’d freeze again when someone needed her.
Running from the memory of her father’s hand going limp in hers.
Running from Lydia’s face in that cave. Running from the terrifying possibility that if she stayed, if she let herself care too much, she’d lose someone else she loved.
But most of all, running from Noah.
You save people, Meggie.
But what if she couldn’t? What if next time—
The heat started to claw at her throat. She pressed her palm flat against the desk. Four in. Hold. Four out. The technique Dr. Sandra had taught her years ago.
It passed.
Meg took a shaky breath and forced herself to update Emma’s chart. The machine hummed as if it was considering giving up entirely. But it limped along. Much like everything else at the North Rim.
Much like her.
Her medical bag sat on the desk where she’d left it after the morning’s hike. She needed to restock it—bandages, antiseptic, emergency supplies. As she unzipped the main compartment, something fluttered out—a note card from the gift shop.
Meg frowned. She didn’t remember putting any notes in her bag.
She picked it up with careful fingers and unfolded it. She stared at the bold green block letters.
TIME DOESN’T ALWAYS HEAL.
She looked around the empty office, then out the window to the parking lot beyond. A handful of cars scattered across the asphalt. A couple walking toward the lodge. Everything normal. Peaceful.
But someone had been in her medical bag. Someone had left this note.
And suddenly, the warmth from treating Emma felt very far away, replaced by a cold that settled deep in her bones.