Page 67 of Carry On

“Yeah.”

“But you play with your right hand.”

He noticed? That fact surprised me. It was such a nuanced thing for him to notice.

Don’t get any ideas,the voice chimed in.It means nothing.

“I punch with my right hand too,” I retorted and rolled my eyes to deflect the weird feeling ebbing its way through my chest.

“You’re a heathen.” He may have said the words, but I caught the little smirk on his lips. He closed his book and sighed, shifting to give me his full attention. “Dr. Whitlock is good, and he’s thorough.”

“Clearly,” I said. No wonder Lincoln picked him as a doctor. They were two peas in a fucking pod.

“I say that,” he continued as he ignored me, “because I want you to know that Dr. Whitlock can help you, and if he can’t, he’ll know who to send you to so you get the help that you need.”

“You’re lucky I trust you.” The words made me falter. I’d said them without even thinking.

“Do you trust me?” Lincoln asked quietly.

Should you trust him?the voice practically demanded, almost loud enough to drown him out.

“Yeah,” I admitted. The admission felt weird outloud. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d trusted anyone. For good measure, I added, “I’d be fucking stupid not to, considering what we’re doing here.”

“Right.” He turned away and focused on his book, my statement probably affecting him more than he let on. Why wouldn’t it? I all but insinuated that the only reason I trusted him was because of our circumstances, not because of who he was as a person.

Except that was wrong. It was just easier to deflect than say something honest.

Just one more thing to add to the list of how you’ve fucked up with him,the voice commented.

Yeah, I knew that much.

“Patrick?” a nurse called out from the other end of the lobby.

“Fuck,” I muttered under my breath as I got to my feet. I wasn’t even done with my intake form.

“What’s the fucking point?” I snapped the minute we were outside, not even half an hour later. “Why the fuck do I have to go to one doctor for him to say‘oh, I don’t know what’s wrong with you’and send me to see someone else. I spent more time in the fucking waiting room than I did with the goddamn doctor! His ass barely hit the fucking seat before he was out of there.”

Okay, that last part wasn’t entirely true. The guy didn’t even sit down. He just stood there and talked at me about my history. About my time in the military and my time spent homeless. About my TBI and the migraines.

And that was it. That was more than enough for him to say that he couldn’t treat me. Wouldn’t. The man wouldn’t treat me. He wanted me to see another doctor.

Another fucking doctor.

“Unfortunately, that’s just how the system works,” Lincoln replied. His voice was even as if he was handling me.

Can you blame him?the voice asked.

No, I couldn’t fucking blame him. I’d come out seething because what was the point?

“But we have a referral—”

“Do they realize this is how people fucking die?” I continued to rage, not really giving a fuck what else Lincoln had to say. “People walk in, they need help, and what? It’s a fucking numbers game! More doctors means more fucking money to make the goddamn world turn.”

“Nash—”

“It’s fucking stupid!” My voice kept rising. I didn’t care that we were standing on the sidewalk or that people were walking by. I couldn’t see past my own anger. “What’s the fucking point of insurance if I have to jump through hoops just to get a doctor to take me seriously?”

“Nash—”