The click of the apartment door shutting behind him was a sound of finality. George Reeves stood for a moment on the top of the wooden stairs, the doctor's bag his father had given him feeling suddenly heavy in his hand. The morning air was cool and carried the dense, salty perfume of the sea. Below him, Water Street was quiet, bathed in the soft, gold light of a new day.
He took a deep breath. He was a man who thrived on order, on the controlled chaos of an operating room. This—this quiet, this newness—was a different kind of unknown. The nervous flutter in his stomach wasn't about his competency; he knew medicine. It was about everything else. Would they trust him? A Black doctor from the city? In a town so white it seemed carved from ivory and sea-foam? He had prepared himself for skepticism, for the slow, hard work of winning people over.
He descended the stairs, his footsteps echoing in the stillness. Across the street, the older man with the magnificent white beard was back in his garden. He wasn't just watering today; he was on his knees, carefully mulching around the base of some vibrant blue hydrangeas with the focus of a surgeon. He looked up as George reached the bottom step, his eyes a startlingly clear blue under bushy white eyebrows.
"Mornin'," the man said, his voice a pleasant rumble. He didn't stop his work.
"Good morning," George replied, pausing. He offered a smile. "Those are some of the healthiest hydrangeas I've ever seen."
The man sat back on his heels, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. He looked genuinely pleased. "Aye, they like the soil here. Acidic. You're the new doctor."
It wasn't a question. News traveled fast in a bowl this small.
"I am. George Reeves." He walked over to the low stone wall that separated the sidewalk from the garden.
"William Corbin," the man said, extending a earthy hand. George shook it without hesitation. The grip was firm, calloused. "Own the hardware store down the way. Your family get in alright yesterday?"
"We did, thanks. The apartment is great."
"Good, good. Barbara Smith's a force of nature. She'll see you right." William picked up his trowel again, pointing it vaguely down the street. "Clinic's just around the bend. White building. Green door. Can't miss it. Leda Marsh runs the place. She's… efficient." He said the word with a weight that implied a universe of meaning.
George chuckled. "So I've heard."
"She'll have you sorted. Town needs a steady hand. Old Doc Henderson was a good man, but his hands shook something fierce near the end." William said it matter-of-factly, without malice. It was just a fact of life. A chapter ending, a new one beginning.
A comfortable silence fell between them, filled only by the sound of a spade scraping dirt and the cry of gulls. There was no sense of being judged, no lingering stare, no awkwardness. He was the new doctor. William Corbin was the hardware store owner who grew prize-winning hydrangeas. That was the entirety of the interaction. It was breathtakingly simple.
"Well, I should let you get to it," George said, feeling the knot in his shoulders loosen. "Nice to meet you, William."
"You too, Doctor. Good luck today."
George turned and started his walk. The town was slowly coming alive. A young mother pushing a stroller gave him a warm smile. "Morning, Doctor!" she called out. He hadn't met her. She just knew. He waved back, feeling a strange sense of belonging.
He passed the Salty Dog Diner. Through the window, he saw a few old-timers sitting at the counter, nursing mugs of coffee. One of them, the same man who'd waved from the bench yesterday, saw him, nodded slowly, and raised his mug in a small, silent salute. George nodded back.
His fears, so tightly held, began to feel foolish. They weren't just being tolerated; they were being incorporated. He was not a Black man first; he was the new doctor first. It was a profound and humbling relief.
He found the clinic easily. The white building was pristine, the green door freshly painted. He took a final steadying breath and turned the knob.
The waiting room was empty and so quiet he could hear the hum of the fluorescent lights. It was impeccably clean. The magazines on the side table were perfectly fanned. A woman sat behind the reception glass, her grey hair cut in a severe, perfect bob. She looked up as he entered. Her eyes, a pale, sharp blue, assessed him instantly. She did not smile, but she gave a short, efficient nod. The nameplate on the desk read: Leda Marsh.
"Dr. Reeves," she stated. Her voice was crisp, devoid of warmth but also of any discernible prejudice. It was the voice of pure function.
"Ms. Marsh," he replied, matching her tone.
She stood, a tall, ramrod-straight figure, and came to the door that separated the waiting area from the clinic proper. She held it open for him. "Welcome. Your credentials and licensing have been verified and are in order. The examination rooms are stocked according to the inventory list I forwarded to the locum service. You will find everything is in its place."
She led him on a brisk tour. The clinic was small, but it was a model of efficiency. Every drawer he opened revealed supplies meticulously organized and restocked. The files in the cabinet were alphabetized with a precision that bordered on the obsessive. The place didn't just run; it purred.
"I run a tight ship, Doctor," Leda Marsh said, her hands clasped neatly in front of her. She watched him take it all in. "We are the first and only line of care for this community. There is no room for error. There is no time for disorganization. We see mostly occupational injuries, seasonal illnesses, and routine care. It is not glamorous. But it is essential."
George looked around at the spotless, silent rooms. He saw not sterility, but readiness. Not coldness, but profound respect for the patients who would walk through the door.
"I understand completely, Ms. Marsh," he said, his voice filled with genuine respect. "This is… impressive."
A flicker of something—was it approval?—crossed her impassive face. "It is merely correct. Your first patient is scheduled for Monday at eight-fifteen. A well-baby check for the Williams child. The family history and file are on your desk. I suggest you review them."
She left him standing in the middle of his new office. On the desk was a neat stack of folders and a brand-new stethoscope, still in its packaging. A welcome gift. He picked it up. It was cool and solid in his hands.
He sat down, swiveling his chair to look out the window. He could see a sliver of the channel, blue and calm in the morning sun. William Corbin was back at work in his garden. The town was going about its day.
He turned back to the top file on his desk, opened it, and began to read. The name on the tab read: WILLIAMS, Baby (Isla). He smiled. A relation of the friendly gardener, perhaps. It felt like another small thread, connecting him to this place.
He was home.