Page 6 of Healed By the Grumpy Elf

Lavender. Cinnamon. And something else, something distinct that makes my nose wrinkle involuntarily. I inhale deeply, my jaw tightening as I scan the waiting room.

Candy. The place smells like candy.

I cast a glance around the small waiting room and stifle a growl.

The walls are painted a bright shade of sunshine yellow with pale-blue trim. Crayon drawings line every available surface, crude depictions of what I assume are patients and the previous doctor, a white-bearded human with an unnaturally large smile. Toy boxes overflow with stuffed animals and blocks. A reading nook is stacked with children's books about bodies and germs, with titles likeThe Monster Inside Me Is Just a ColdandWhy Do Werewolves Sneeze?

This is not a medical facility. This is a kindergarten art gallery.

“Isn’t it just wonderful?” Mrs. Beckham chimes from behind me, misinterpreting my silence as curiosity rather than horror. “Dr. Wells believed that a medical facility should be welcoming to patients of all ages.”

I watch her diminutive figure coming to stand next to me. She worries her knuckles, rubbing over them in an almost obsessive gesture.

"Especially the little ones. They're always so frightened of doctors."

I move to the toy box, lifting out a stuffed unicorn with suspicious stains on its horn.

"These are potential germ vectors," I state, dropping it into the box with the drawings. "Not to mention safety hazards."

Mrs. Beckham flutters closer, her tiny hands reaching for a wooden puzzle. "But the toys help distract the younger patients during wait times. Especially the nervous ones."

I turn away from the toy box and its offensive content and walk to the reception desk. There, too, is unacceptable clutter. Figurines with enlarged, wobbly heads litter the surface along with what can only be described as perpetually dancing flowers.

Ridiculous.

"Medicine isn't meant to be comfortable," I reply, running a finger along the reception desk and finding it impeccably clean. "It's meant to be effective. A proper medical environment inspires confidence through order and cleanliness. It’s not meant for arts and crafts hour. It's about making them well."

Mrs. Beckham's smile doesn't falter, but something in her eyes hardens slightly.

"In my thirty years working for Dr. Wells, I found it could be both." She straightens a stack of paperwork on the desk. "The children of Saltford Bay particularly loved the stickers he gave out after vaccinations."

"I don't do stickers."

"So you mentioned in your email." She picks up a clipboard and her lips pinch. "Perhaps you'd like to see the examination rooms? I've prepared everything according to your specifications."

I nod curtly, following her down a hallway equally festooned with childish artwork and motivational posters featuring cartoon germs being vanquished by soap bubbles.

The atmosphere is warm, lived-in, and utterly unprofessional.

This simply won't do. It will all have to go. A medical facility should inspire confidence and respect.

The sooner I can transform this daycare center into something resembling a proper clinic, the better.

"The supply order you requested arrived yesterday," Mrs. Beckham continues and I can’t help but appreciate her professionalism. "Everything is stocked exactly as you specified. Though I did take the liberty of ordering more treats for the children. It makes a difference, believe me."

I stop in my tracks.

"Treats in a doctor’s office?" The words taste bitter on my tongue.

“Yes, Doctor.” Mrs. Beckham turns, meeting my gaze without flinching. “This is Saltford Bay, not the High Court.”

"And I am not Dr. Wells," I remind her coolly. "This is my clinic now."

"Of course." She inclines her head slightly, but her amber eyes flash. "And it’s now your responsibility to care for this community. All of them, quirks and all."

I want to argue, to explain that I didn't come to this town to peddle candies and placebo effects. I came to practice real medicine. Medicine that’s based on science and facts.

I want to tell Mrs. Beckham that, but something in her gaze gives me pause. This woman has been the backbone of this clinic for three decades. Alienating her on my first day would be… inefficient.