Chapter 29 #2
I don’t need to turn to know who it is. You can get the boy out of the rural Midwest, but you can’t take the rural Midwest out of the boy.
I turn. “Hey,” I say.
Nate stands a couple of feet away from me.
He’s got an opened carton of eggs, twisting each of them around to ensure none of them are cracked.
A trick from his mom, a woman trying to make every penny count.
I used to love knowing how these traces of harder times had sunk into his bones, etched into his routine.
I never knew one day they’d be the end of us.
Nate’s hair is down today, and it brushes his shoulders.
He looks … softer. The red tones in his hair are more prominent now that there’s more of it.
I want to bury my fingers in it and feel its length.
I shake the thought away, and my eyes land on his cart.
He’s got two types of yogurt—my oat milk one, and then plain Greek we used for oatmeal.
His eyes are on my cart, clocking that I also have his fancy one with jam at the bottom.
“Didn’t think I’d run into you,” he says.
“Well, it is the closest grocery store,” I state.
He smiles. “How are you?” he asks.
“Fine.” I look at the refrigerated display in front of us. The space where his favorite flavor would be is empty. I reach for the yogurt with jam in my cart. “You?”
His gaze follows my hand as he clears his throat. “Good. Yeah. Good.”
I place the yogurt in his cart and smile.
When I look up, his eyes are on the yogurt, but his cheeks round the edges of his expression into something warm and open.
I try to think of the last time he smiled this way at something I did for him.
Or even the last time I did anything, even if simple like this, for him.
The only thing that comes to mind is those tickets I gifted him three Christmases ago.
Does it even count if we never went to those places?
The silence stretches, thin and careful. This is what happens when two people know so much about each other yet don’t know what to do with it. I reach for butter; I don’t even use butter.
“It was Wednesday last night,” he rushes out, as if he needs to say it before his brain catches up. “I missed you.”
I look up. “Are you liking the book?”
“Not as much as I was liking The Tell-Tale Brain.” He winces. “It’s still a good read, though. It’s just …”
It wasn’t the same without me my brain supplies unhelpfully. I swallow. Something tight pulls behind my sternum. “I’m sorry I didn’t join you.” I’m saying what I should, but, in truth, I’m hiding from him.
Because I did join him. I just didn’t pull the blinds up. Didn’t let him see me sitting there with my phone light on reading the same pages in How Buildings Learn and wondering if the words spoke to him the way they spoke to me.
“It’s okay.” He swipes the butter off my cart and puts it in his. “I figured you were busy.”
“I was,” I say. True enough. “Why did you steal my butter?”
He gives me a lopsided smile, hitching one shoulder, and his hair moves with the gesture. “You never use butter. But I’m a call away if you need it.”
We stand there, the moment loaded and unsaid, when the store’s PA crackles to life.
“Attention shoppers—if there is a medical professional on-site, please report immediately to aisle twelve. Medical emergency. Aisle twelve.”
My body moves before my mind finishes processing. Leaving the cart behind, I glance above the shelves at the store to find aisle twelve and sprint that way. Nate’s footsteps are close behind.
Aisle twelve is chaos. A small crowd. Someone kneeling, someone crying. On the floor, sprawled awkwardly on his side, is Mr. Matthews.
For half a second—just one—my chest locks, and I freeze. I’ve never had to help outside of a shift before. I breathe in and let everything click into place.
“I’m a doctor.” I step forward. “Please, move aside so I can examine him,” I say, kneeling.
“Sir,” I state, finding his eyes. “Mr. Matthews. Can you hear me?” He doesn’t answer.
I scan fast. Pale. Diaphoretic. Breathing shallow but present.
“Nate,” I say without looking up, “call 911. Tell them suspected acute stroke. Patient has been treated for early-stage cerebellar infarct. Presented symptoms earlier in the day with a standard CT. Give them this address.”
He’s already dialing.
I reposition Mr. Matthews carefully, rolling him onto his back and elevating his head just enough to protect his airway. No unnecessary movement. No heroics.
“Mr. Matthews,” I say, close to his ear, steady and clear, “it’s Dr. Hollis. You’re in a grocery store. Please squeeze my hands.”
Nothing on the right. A weak response on the left. My pulse picks up, but my hands don’t shake. “Do you know what time he collapsed?” I ask the woman hovering near his head.
“Just now.” She sobs. “Minutes ago. He was talking and then—”
I glance at my watch and lock it in. Time matters. I shine my phone light briefly into his open eyes—unequal pupils. My stomach drops, but my hands stay precise.
A man nearby blurts, “He has high blood pressure—takes something for it. Talks about it all the time.”
“Lisinopril,” I say, nodding. “I’m his neurologist. I know his history.”
The sound of the sirens bleed into the store, merciful and loud.
When the paramedics rush in, I run a FAST assessment for the responders. Face. Arms. Speech. Time. No wasted words. They load him onto the stretcher. The crowd exhales as one.
I stay kneeling a second, my pulse finally catching up with me. When I stand, I fumble briefly for my keys.
“Nate.” I step close, nearly chest to chest. “He’s my patient. I’m riding with him. Can you drive my car to the hospital and leave my keys at reception?”
He nods. His mouth opens, but I’m already moving.
I jog after the gurney and reach the ambulance as they start to close the doors, but I slip inside before they latch shut.
I’m not sure if it’s been hours or minutes. Time has thinned into something unreliable.
I stare at my reflection in the elevator and drag my hands over my face until the skin feels tight. The smell of antiseptic clings to my clothes, hair, and skin. I can’t shake this feeling. I can’t handle the judgment in my own eyes. When I glance to the left, it’s not just the desk there.
It’s Nate.
He’s leaning against the reception desk, phone in hand, denim jacket folded over his arm, hair dangling just above his shoulders.
When he sees me, he stands upright. A smile of relief crosses his face first—automatic, unguarded.
Then whatever I look like must register.
Because his ease is overtaken by tension, squaring to the point he’s almost statuesque.
“Robyn …”
The sound of my name breaks something open.
“I lost him, Nate.” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. It’s thin and scraped bare. “He was my patient. He trusted me to not miss anything. But I did and I lost him.”
The hallway tilts. Or maybe it’s just me.
I don’t remember closing the distance. Maybe it wasn’t me who did. One second, I’m standing, the next, I’m folding into him, forehead pressed to his chest, fingers curling into the back of his shirt. All I can think is that a long time ago, he was the only certainty I had.
This isn’t professional grief. This isn’t clinical distance.
This is the weight of every contingency I ran, every sign I read correctly—and the one I didn’t.
The quiet terror that no matter how good I am, it will never be enough to save everyone.
Because deep down, I know I didn’t miss anything.
I did the best I could, and it wasn’t good enough.
Nate’s arms come around me without hesitation.
No words. Just heat, pressure, and the calm rise and fall of his breath.
His steadiness feels borrowed. He smells of a shared past. Our relationship another loss.
I shouldn’t, but I cry into him anyway, and he just holds me together. Present, alive, solid.