Chapter 47
The waiting room I’m sitting in smells like antiseptic, barely masking the mildew.
The paint is a tired beige, scuffed and chipped in places where furniture has been shoved against it.
The floor matches, showing where chairs have been dragged and redragged across linoleum that has completely lost its shine.
The ballasts of the fluorescent lights are only half working.
Every seat is plastic, not one of them matches.
It reminds me a lot of Jadiriah.
I sit with my hands folded tightly in my lap, elbows tucked in, and shoulders drawn forward. The handwritten sign taped crookedly to the intake window reads: PLEASE HAVE PATIENCE. WE ARE DOING OUR BEST. The edges are curled, like it’s been there a long time.
My knees bounce despite my effort to still them.
The room is already filling quickly, mothers with tired eyes and children clinging to their coats, an elderly woman coughing softly into a threadbare scarf, and a man with a swollen hand wrapped in a makeshift bandage.
A baby’s cries fill the room as the door opens again, the sound of hunger or discomfort or both.
This place screams need.
I should feel comfortable here. This should feel familiar. It looks like almost all of the hospitals I’ve worked in: underfunded, understaffed, and overlooked by anyone with the power to change that. Yet, my stomach twists violently, nausea rolling through me in hot, sickening waves.
It’s been doing that all morning.
I swallow hard and glance out the narrow front window, sunlight slicing through grimy glass.
Parked right out front, impossibly clean and painfully shiny, is Jagger’s bright red dad wagon.
The thing looks like it wandered in from a different universe—polished, well-maintained, wildly out of place among dented sedans and rusted pickup trucks.
It might as well have a blinking sign that says, NOT FROM HERE.
My stomach lurches again. Get it together, Blake. I press my palm flat against my abdomen, hoping to subdue this feeling. You’ve done harder things than an interview.
The receptionist calls name after name. Chairs scrape against the floor as the room keeps growing louder and fuller. I can feel eyes flicking toward me with curiosity. I look like I don’t belong here, either—expensive coat, clean booties, and dress slacks.
The nausea spikes again, sharp and sudden. My mouth fills with saliva. I breathe slowly through my nose, counting. In. Out. In. Out.
It’s just nerves. Or maybe that deep dish from the place around the corner that Jagger has gotten me obsessed with. It’s practically the only thing I’ve eaten since he left for a mission yesterday.
The door opens across the room, and I shift in my seat.
A tall, older gentleman steps into the waiting room.
He has silver hair combed neatly back, wire-rimmed glasses perched low on his nose, and a white coat that’s seen better days but has been meticulously mended at the seams. His posture is upright, calm, and well-practiced.
His eyes land on me immediately. “Dr. Blake Hart?” he asks.
I stand too quickly. The room tilts a little, not helping the unease in my stomach at all.
“That’s me.”
“I’m Dr. Baylor,” he greets me warmly. “Come on back.”
I follow him down a narrow hallway, walls lined with faded posters about flu shots and blood pressure awareness, as the floor squeaks beneath our feet.
“So,” he says conversationally as we walk, “thank you for coming in. We don’t get many applicants willing to make the trip.”
I nod. “I’m glad to be here.”
He opens the door to his office. It’s small, cluttered, and overflowing with file folders stacked in precarious towers. A framed photo of what looks like a younger Dr. Baylor with a group of smiling nurses hangs slightly crooked behind his desk.
“We’re entirely funded by grants and donations,” he shares, gesturing for me to sit. “Which means we have the best of nothing. The equipment is outdated, supplies are limited, staff are stretched thin, and the pay is… well,” he grins wryly, “horrible.”
“You really sell it.” I smile broadly. “It’s what I’m used to and exactly what I’m looking for.”
“That’s good to hear!” he exclaims, his eyes brightening. “Now, tell me…”
He asks a question. I know he does. I see his mouth move. I hear a sound. But the words don’t register.
My stomach clenches violently, a sudden, overwhelming surge of nausea preparing to erupt up my throat. Sweat beads at my temples as I fight against the inevitable. I swallow hard, my mouth filling with saliva.
“I’m sorry.” My voice comes out thin. “What was that?”
Dr. Baylor pauses, studying me more carefully now. “Are you feeling okay?”
I force a nod. “I think it’s just bad takeout last night.”
He frowns slightly but continues, asking another question. Something about experience, I think.
I open my mouth, but the nausea surges again, fiercer this time.
My body reacts on instinct. I shove myself up from the chair, barely managing to pivot before I drop to my knees beside his desk and retch violently into the small trash can.
My hands shake as my stomach empties itself with brutal insistence, my eyes watering and bile burning my throat.
This cannot be happening. I am mortified beyond measure.
Dr. Baylor is at my side instantly, one steady hand on my shoulder. “Easy. It’s all right.”
When it finally stops, I slump back on my heels, breathing hard and cheeks flush with embarrassment. “I am so sorry.” My voice is hoarse. “I didn’t… This has never…”
“Don’t apologize,” he states firmly. “Let’s get you checked out, just to be safe.” He helps me to my feet and leads me next door to an exam room, where a nurse joins us. She is an older woman with kind eyes and a soft voice.
“I’m Lydia,” she introduces herself, smiling gently as she wraps a blood pressure cuff around my arm. “We’ll be quick.”
They move efficiently and professionally. Blood pressure. Pulse. Temperature. Respirations. Everything methodical, reassuring. “See?” I say weakly when they finish. “Just a little food poisoning.”
Dr. Baylor doesn’t look convinced. “Any chance you could be pregnant?”
“No,” I scoff immediately, shaking my head.
Lydia glances at me with a knowing look. “Are you sexually active?”
“Yes.”
“Are you using contraception without fail?”
My gaze drops to my arm, staring through my shirt to where that tiny implant used to be. I close my eyes and exhale slowly, the truth settling heavy in my chest. “No.”
Dr. Baylor and Lydia exchange a glance. “We should probably do a test,” he says gently. “Just to be sure.”
I nod numbly.
Minutes later, I stare at the small plastic stick resting on the counter. Two pink lines. Dark and unmistakable.
“How did you know?” I ask faintly.
Lydia smiles softly. “We see a lot of first-time moms here,” she answers. “Most very uninformed when it comes to pregnancy prevention.”
Moms.
The word echoes in my head, foreign and enormous.
I thank them both, my tone apologetic. “I’m sorry for… your trash… I’m sorry. And you’re so busy here, so I’m sorry for wasting your time this morning.”
Dr. Baylor studies me for a long moment. “You aren’t interested in the position anymore?” he asks.
“I… I just… With everything.” I bumble through my words. “I figured…”
“It’s yours if you want it.” He grins broadly. “With your references, the interview was a formality. The vomit, an added bonus.”
I apologize again, shaking his hand and thanking him for the opportunity before leaving.