The clinic smelled the way it always did: of antiseptic, floor wax, and the faint, papery scent of aging magazines. It was a smell that meant order, cleanliness, and a certain resigned calm. Dr. Ben Evans loved that smell. It was the smell of a problem that could, eventually, be defined and solved. Unlike so many other things in life.
His first patient of the day was Agnes Higgins. Her blood pressure was a little high.
"It's just… with Buster gone, the house is so quiet, Ben," she said, her small hands knotting in her lap. "I keep thinking I hear his collar jingling. It's foolish."
"It's not foolish, Agnes," Ben said, his voice soft as he wrapped the blood pressure cuff around her thin arm. "It's grief. It wears many disguises. How are you sleeping?"
"Oh, you know. In bits and pieces." She looked out the window at the misty morning. "I saw Walter Higgins on his walk. Regular as clockwork. It's comforting, in a way. Some things don't change."
Ben pumped the cuff, listening through his stethoscope. The rhythmic thump-thump was steady, but elevated. Stress. Loneliness. He made a note on her chart. "I want you to try and get out a bit more, Agnes. Come to the library. Have tea with Dotty. The silence will only get louder if you let it."
He gave her a gentle prescription for a mild sleep aid and a much stronger one for social interaction. She promised to try.
His next patient was one of the Henderson boys, the one who'd gotten his truck stuck. He had a nasty cut on his hand from trying to free it.
"Rusty piece of metal got me," the kid muttered, not meeting Ben's eyes.
"The mill pond's a dangerous place to be joyriding, son," Ben said, cleaning the wound with practiced efficiency. "You're lucky it was just your hand. Sheriff Miller find you before your dad did?"
The kid winced. "Yeah. Dad's gonna kill me anyway. Says I'm a menace."
"Maybe channel that energy into something useful," Ben suggested, applying a bandage. "Ray over at the garage is always looking for help. Learn a trade. Better than tearing up county property."
The kid shrugged, but Ben saw a flicker of consideration in his eyes. That was often the best you could do—plant a seed and hope it grew before the weeds of boredom and frustration choked it out.
The morning continued in its predictable rhythm. A well-baby check for Mia Flores, who was now happily recovered from her fever. Lena looked exhausted but relieved.
"Jasper still keeping you up?" Ben asked, checking the toddler's ears.
"It's like he's possessed," Lena laughed. "Running around at all hours. Must be a full moon or something." Ben made a note on the chart. Pet behaving erratically. Owner fatigued. It was a social note, not a medical one. Part of the town's vital signs.
His last patient before lunch was Mark Keating from NCC. He was there for a DOT physical required for his driver's license.
"Everything in order, Doc?" Keating asked, his tone friendly but professional. He was a picture of corporate health—fit, well-groomed, his blood pressure perfect.
"Fit as a fiddle, Mark," Ben said, scribbling his signature on the form. "How's things up at the port?"
"Busy. The Atlantic Star's a quick turnaround. Lots of product moving." Keating's answers were always smooth, revealing nothing. "Town seems lively. Heard about the lighthouse. Good for them."
"It's a point of contention," Ben said neutrally.
"Progress always is," Keating replied with a bland smile. He took his form. "Thanks, Doc. Have a good one."
After he left, Ben stood at the window of his office, looking out at Main Street. Keating was a cipher. A pleasant, healthy, utterly closed-off cipher. He represented the new blood in town, the kind that flowed in and out without ever really mixing with the old.
He thought about his offer to Amanda Hustley. It was charity, he knew that. But it was also a lifeline he felt compelled to throw. He saw the intelligence in her eyes, the frustration. She was too bright for the Quick-Stop. The town was full of people who were too bright, or too skilled, for the options available to them. It was a slow draining of potential.
His nurse, Marjorie, poked her head in. "Lunch time, Doctor. I've got your sandwich from the Wharfside. Tuna salad on rye."
"You're a saint, Marjorie."
"I know," she said, her eyes crinkling. "The afternoon is light. Just Mrs. Gable for her medication review and a few phone-in refills."
Mrs. Gable. Not the Mrs. Gable from the other story. A new one. Eleanor Gable. Eighty-two. A heart condition, a stubborn streak a mile wide, and a belief that her tap water had started to taste "funny."
Ben ate his sandwich at his desk, reading a medical journal. He could hear the faint sounds of the town through his open window—the distant beep of a truck backing up, the chatter of people walking to lunch, the hum of the occasional car.
It was the sound of a functioning organism. A healthy body. But a doctor knew that sometimes, the most serious illnesses began with the smallest, most insignificant symptoms. A slight cough. A minor ache. A vague feeling of something being… off.
He finished his lunch and prepared for Mrs. Gable's appointment. Her "funny" water was almost certainly a side effect of her new medication, or the natural minerals in the aquifer. It was a common complaint. He'd explain it to her, adjust her pills if needed, and that would be that.
Just another ordinary day in Willow Creek. Taking the town's pulse, one patient at a time. Everything was normal. The only fever was little Mia Flores's, and it had broken. The only wound was a boy's cut hand. The only sickness was a lonely woman's broken heart.
There was nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.