Monday morning arrived with the same soft, sea-scented light. The routine was smoother this time. The sneakers were found. The lunchboxes were packed with less trepidation. George left the apartment with a sense of purpose, his father's doctor's bag feeling lighter in his hand, more like an old friend than a burden.
The green door of the Eastport Clinic was unlocked. Inside, the air was cool and carried the faint, clean scent of lemons and antiseptic. The waiting room was no longer empty. A young couple sat on the vinyl chairs, the woman gently bouncing a bundled baby on her knee. The man looked up as George entered, his expression a mix of hope and nervousness. George recognized him—he had a similar bearing to William Corbin, the same steady blue eyes. David Williams.
Leda Marsh looked up from her station behind the glass. "Dr. Reeves. Your eight-fifteen is here." Her tone was the same efficient monotone, but George thought he detected a hint of—was it?—anticipation.
"Thank you, Ms. Marsh," he said. He offered a smile to the young couple. "Mr. and Mrs. Williams? I'm Dr. Reeves. Please, come on back."
He led them into the first examining room. It was just as pristine as it had been on Friday. Everything was in its place. The weight of the new stethoscope around his neck felt familiar now.
The appointment was straightforward. Isla Williams was a healthy, bright-eyed six-month-old. George went through the well-baby check with a calm, methodical ease, asking the parents questions about her feeding, her sleep, her milestones. He explained each step as he did it, checking her fontanelles, listening to her strong, steady heart, testing her reflexes.
"She's perfect," he said finally, smiling as he handed a gurgling Isla back to her mother. "Absolutely textbook."
The relief on their faces was palpable. "Old Doc Henderson was great," David Williams said, shaking George's hand with a firm, calloused grip. A fisherman's grip, like his father's. "But it's good to have a fresh set of eyes. We're glad you're here, Doctor."
The words were simple, but they landed on George with a profound weight. It was trust. Offered freely, without reservation.
The rest of the morning followed a similar pattern. A fisherman with a deep, clean cut on his palm from a fillet knife. An elderly woman with arthritis in her knees. A teenager with a nagging cough. Each patient was different, but the pattern was the same: a initial, brief moment of assessment—the new doctor—followed by a quick, professional acceptance. Leda Marsh was a constant, efficient presence, herding patients, managing files, ensuring the machine of the clinic ran without a hitch.
During a lull, George stepped into the small break room for a cup of coffee. Leda was there, adding a precise amount of cream to her own mug.
"You handled the laceration on Mr. Dobbs well," she said, not looking up from her task. "His wife is a notorious worrier. You were… reassuring."
It was, George realized, the closest thing to a compliment he was likely to get from her.
"Thank you, Ms. Marsh," he said. "It was a straightforward suture."
"It is not the suture that was important," she said, finally looking at him. Her sharp blue eyes held his for a moment. "It was the reassurance. That is also part of the job here." She picked up her mug. "Your next patient is here. Mrs. Peabody. Dizziness."
And with that, she was gone, leaving George with the distinct feeling that he had just passed another test. He looked out the break room window. He could see the water at the end of the street, sparkling in the late morning sun. He took a sip of coffee. It was good. Strong.
He was not just the new doctor anymore. He was their doctor. And the weight of that trust felt good. It felt like belonging.