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“Sloane moved your patient. I approved it. He was early and happy to wait.”
I press both hands over my face. “I’m fine.”
“I know.” Her voice softens. “Sit anyway.”
So I sit, and Carina shuffles closer to me. “That went well, Heid.”
A short, thin laugh escapes my mouth. “He didn’t fund it.”
“No, but he backed you.”
“With a ten-day countdown.”
“Yeah.”
Her honesty helps. I would rather have that than someone trying to wrap panic up in fake optimism.
“I thought I was ready for him to say no to the money,” I admit. “But it still hurt.”
“Of course it hurt.” Carina’s hand covers mine on the table. “You wanted the dream answer.”
“I wanted just one thing this morning to be easy.” Her mouth pulls to the side, and I look at her. “Don’t say life isn’t easy, or I’ll bite you.”
Carina squeezes my hand, then releases it. “You need food.”
“I need capital.”
“You have ten minutes, and you always vow to hunt me down whenever I don’t eat, so this is me returning the favor.” She stands, then gestures to the door. “Come on. Let me look at that bruise properly before you see Mr. Alvarez.”
We step out into the corridor, and the clinic folds around us again, like any other normal day. Patients in treatment rooms, Sloane at the front desk with a phone tucked against her ear and another line blinking. Life continuing as if mine hasn’t been reduced to a deadline.
In our small staff room, Carina checks my collarbone and neck with gentle hands. The seatbelt mark is already deepening to as crimson red, and tender under her fingers.
“No major concerns right now,” she says. “Obvious soft tissue bruising. You’ll be sore, so ice it later—and no heroics with patients today.”
“I never do heroics with patients.”
She gives me a flat look. “I can ask Cal to take Mr. Alvarez if you need more time.”
“Absolutely not. Cal already thinks joy is a scheduling error.”
“Cal thinks most things are scheduling errors.” Carina sighs. “But let people help you today, Heidi. Please?”
The words land too close to the place I’m trying to keep locked down, so I sniff and raise my chin. “I let Viktor drive me here.”
“I’m still processing that.”
“Me too.”
Sloane appears in the doorway with a protein bar and a tablet with my schedule.
“Mr. Alvarez is in room four,” she says. “I told him you were delayed by a minor accident but still able to see him. He said to take your time, but he’s also brought the shoes he’s wearing to his daughter’s wedding to show you, because he wants to walk her down the aisle without limping.”
My chest pulls tight at her words, because this is my why. Not the crumpled folder or the damn lease—they’re merely resources and tools that help me to achieve my why.
Mr. Alvarez in room four with his wedding shoes is my why.
“Okay,” I say, taking the protein bar.
