Page 19 of The Heart We Guard
“You told me you got fired. Why?”
Shit. I forgot I said that. We move to the sofa, and I get him settled before I curl my feet beneath me as I sit on the other end, away from him. It’s a long story, but for him to truly understand why I felt so strongly, I need to go back to the very beginning.
“My brother got tangled up with a motorcycle club, was a prospect. He told me he had a big night, doing something that would make him a patched-in member. But when things went south, the club didn’t get him proper medical attention. Justdumped him on my foster parents’ lawn to die. So, I vowed I would help anyone who needed help, and if they couldn’t afford it…well, I’d figure out a way to make sure they could. I’m a surgeon because of him, and I give half my salary back to the hospital’s hardship fund.”
I glance out the window. There wouldn’t be nearly half as much money in that goddamn fund as there is if it weren’t for me. And I understand all the hoops and ethics rules about who decides how it gets spent, but if I want to operate on someone, I should be allowed to. If I want to access some of that goddamn hardship money to pay for their surgery, I should be able to. And if the hardship fund won’t agree, I should be able to donate my time and pay for their surgery myself.
“It’s all about power and control. Who gives the money. Who decides where the money gets spent. And when a kid tied up in a motorcycle club needed surgery but had no money, I did the surgery anyway. But after I completed the surgery, I was told he couldn’t access the hardship fund because of his potential involvement in a crime.”
“Fuck.”
“Might have yelled at a few people that I had a right to say how the fund was spent given my contributions to it. Might have called someone a privileged, power-hungry bureaucrat.”
“Shit. Go big or go home, right? So, what do you do now? Appeal or something? Move and get a new job?”
I look back at him. “I don’t know. My boss said we’d talk, but I don’t know if I want to. But for the longest time, I’ve thought about setting up a mobile clinic. One equipped to do basic surgeries, like a field clinic. I want to hire the kind of doctors who aren’t in it for fancy hospitals with huge salaries. But for those who can triage like a boss, who can run a surgery like we’re on a battlefield. Ones with courage in spades and who can talk to kids outside their social circle. One where fees arecommensurate with actual outgoings and in touch with realistic budgets for families with no insurance.”
Butcher closes his eyes and lets his head fall back on the sofa. “If you need a reference, I can write you one.”
I grin at that. “Thank you. I’ve got a million different notes on bits of paper about how to start it. I need an actual mobile clinic like an old ambulance, supplies, funds, etc. I have to decide how to get word out on the street that my service exists, that it’s mobile. Part of it will be outreach, going to neighborhoods, communicating. I also want to remove all the barriers between patients and doctors. Not the medical ones. But, like, I want to meet patients where they are. In jeans on the street rather than in business clothes in an office.”
Butcher takes a few deep breaths. “I’m sure a smart girl like you can figure it out.”
“Woman. A smartwomanlike me most definitely can.”
He opens one eye, gives me an assessing look, then closes it again. “Just take the compliment, Doc.”
“Or maybe you could take the feedback?”
The corner of Butcher’s mouth twitches in a smile. “You always this ornery?”
“Yes.”
“I can believe it.”
After a moment, he says, “The kid. The motorcycle club. Which club is he a part of?”
I think of the cut he wore and the moment I recognized it in the ER.
“The Midtown Rebels. Like my brother.”
6
BUTCHER
The sun is setting, casting a warm glow over Greer’s bland white living room.
Usually, I don’t mind loafing on the sofa, watching mindless television. It’s rare that it happens because the club keeps me so busy.
But today? It irritates the shit out of me.
I’m sore, in pain, and things itch that I can’t reach to scratch. I miss cigarettes. I miss alcohol. Withdrawal from both is a bitch and the patches are of minimal help. And I keep thinking about the fact this kid was a prospect for the Midtown Rebels MC. I want to know more, because I hate the idea they’re back.
“Can I get some more of that pain medication, Doc?” I shout.
Greer looks up from the round table she’s sitting at, then looks at her phone. “Sorry, not for another twenty-seven minutes.”
“Fuck,” I mutter.
