Page 6 of Halo

Today is the first time she’s under my care, and even though I never take my responsibilities lightly, this case is different. Personal.

“Did Miss Rory go over the details of your maxillary advancement today?” I ask.

“You kidding?” Rory snorts. “Ainsley has been teaching me. What were you telling me about bone grafting research?”

“Oh!” Ainsley's eyes brighten. “Researchers are testing this fiber stuff to make 3-D bone grafts. They say it might help grafts last longer.”

“Wow …” I nod. “That probably means better outcomes—”

“Exactly!” She squeals, pushing up her glasses. “That's what they're predicting anyway.”

“That probably means no more painful graft retrievals, huh?”

Ainsley groans, scrunching up her face. “That was the worst.”

I gently squeeze her foot. “Well, the good news is we aren’t doing any of that today.”

She huffs out a breath. “Because plates and screws are so much better,” she mumbles.

“Yeah … I guess it is still surgery, huh.”

“Yep—” she pops the P. “Before you know it, I’m going to be setting off metal detectors and complaining about the weather like my grandma.”

“Man, youngest little old lady ever,” I joke. “How old are you now? Thirty-two? Thirty-three?”

“Doctor Nick …” She rolls her eyes. “I'm almost thirteen which means I'm almost driving.”

“Almost.” I wink at her parents. “Well, almost-thirteen, let's chat about your anesthesia.”

Rory stands up, excusing herself. “If y’all need me for anything, you have my card. Ainsley, I’ll see you in a couple of days when you’re moved into your room.”

I run through my checklist, discussing her health and illness history—all of which has already been dutifully updated in her chart. We ask again and again to ensure the patient hasn’t forgotten anything in particular or that we haven’t misheard something that was misinterpreted.

“So …” I clap my hands. “Do y’all have any questions for me?”

“I’m starving, Dr. Nick.”

I laugh. “Sorry, kid, no can-do. But tell you what: if you can hold on tight through surgery, I’ll let you have a delicious taste of an ice chip. Deal?”

She scoffs, flopping back on her pillow. “Oh, goody.”

Almost thirteen indeed. I squeeze her foot. “We’ll head back shortly—”

“Dr. Crawford?” her father interrupts, quickly following me outside the pre-op bay. “I’m sorry. I’m just full of so much anxious energy.”

I give him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “You’re her dad. It’s your job to worry.”

He hums knowingly. “One minute you're finding doctors and therapists so she can eat and communicate. And now …” He chuckles, a quiver under his breath as he searches for words. “You know? She wants to be a doctor.”

“No kidding?”

“She's pretty remarkable.” He smiles proudly. “Pediatricians and specialists have always talked about risks and potential setbacks with each procedure, so much so that now I'm a nervous wreck when we step into this place.” He sighs, meeting my gaze. “We trust you. Ainsley trusts you. Just—make sure she's okay back there today.”

I slowly nod. “Yes, sir.”

The corner of his mouth lifts as he squeezes my shoulder. “Are you a father yet?”

The question stuns me into silence as my heart constricts in my chest. Maybe once upon a time, I could wear that name like a badge of honor. But that’s not me; I have no right to call myself a dad.