NICK
I resumed my rounds with a mechanical competence that was almost frightening.
My body knew how to read a chart, how to palpate an abdomen, and how to deliver a prognosis without involving my brain at all.
My mind was elsewhere.
It was back at the apartment, anchored to the image of Cyan on my couch, drowning in my spare clothes and watching cartoons.
I kept seeing the cut on his palm. I kept seeing the way the morning light hit the sharp line of his jaw.
And then, the dream. The reach. The "almost."
"Dr. Bennett?"
I snapped back to the present. A patient was looking at me, her expression a mixture of confusion and mild offense.
I had missed something. My silence had stretched too long.
"I'm sorry," I said, the words arriving clipped and cold. "Repeat that last part."
She repeated it. I filed it, responded correctly, and moved on, but the gap had been noticed.
