Page 11 of Private Exhibit
“I kept hoping you'd come out of this grief and go back to work.”
“No,” Andy spat, turning on his heel and heading back into the morgue.
But Bokin followed him.Damn it. That trick usually worked. Bokin hated being in the morgue. Granted, he did stop just inside the doorway, but still.
“Andy, look,” Bokin began. “I'm sorry your son died. I really am. And I know there's no time limit on grief. I know it's different for everyone. But you really are the best doctor the world has ever seen. We could really use you up there.”
“Yeah, right,” Andy muttered to himself as he randomly picked things up and put them back down. If he couldn't even save his own son, what good was he to anyone else? He closed his eyes and let out a heavy sigh. “I'm gonna regret this,” he muttered, then turned and faced Bokin. “What's option two?”
Bokin chuckled. “Oh, if you liked option one, you're gonnaloveoption two,” he teased. “Option two is you hire an assistant–”
“Ohhellsno,” Andy spat, striding back into his office. He passed his messy desk and headed straight for the coffee machine.
“–who can do all this paperwork for you.”
“I don't need an assistant.”
Bokin glanced pointedly at the teetering stacks of tablets and files piled up everywhere. “Clearly.”
“Fine. I don'twantan assistant.”
“Well, you're getting one.”
“Nobody here will work with me anymore,” Andy pointed out bitterly as he snatched up his empty mug. There had been a time when there was a waiting list for people to join his team. No matter how tough a boss he was, doctors and nurses had still flocked to work with him, wanting the challenge and prestige of the most difficult cases. Now, everyone avoided him like a plague.
“Which is why we're hiring outside the hospital.”
Andy stared at him. “You make it sound like this is a done deal.”
“It is. Interviews start tomorrow morning.”
“You can't do that!”
“Yes, I can. It's my hospital. So unless you plan on quitting…”
Andy grumbled under his breath. He couldn't quit. This job was all he had. The only thing keeping him from going insane. It wasn't that he needed the income. Thanks to his success prior to Junior's death, he had more money than he could spend in his life. But if he had to be home all the time with nothing but his guilt and his memories? He'd probably turn suicidal within a day. And even that wouldn't do him any good, knowing what he knew about the afterlife. “Gods damn you,” he growled.
Bokin chuckled. “Oh, and whomever you hire, besides taking care of this mess,” he said, gesturing at the incomplete files, “will also be in charge of cleaning out your old office and digitizing your files for storage. Then I'm turning the office over to Crawford.”
Andy's jaw dropped. “You can't do that!” he repeated.
“Once again, yes, I can. My hospital, remember? Crawford needs the space for his research, and if you insist you're not coming back to the land of the living–”
“What research?” Andy spat, viciously yanking the carafe out of the machine. He poured the remains into his mug—barely half a cup—then replaced the carafe with a curse. “What he does isn't even medicine anymore. It's–” Andy worked his jaw, trying to come up with the right word. “It's…cheating!”
“It's saving lives and limbs.”
“It's not what we were trained for!”
“His patients certainly aren't complaining. I mean, look at Vesad Stromos. Famous musician, known the whole world over, falls into total obscurity after having to quit playing when he loses two fingers. Then Crawford comes along and helps the man regrow those fingers, and now Stromos is back and on his way to being more famous than ever.”
“Good for him,” Andy bit off. “It's still not medicine.”
Bokin paused, the brief silence heavy with anticipation. “And if he could cure Ashworth-Grahams?”
Andy bent double, feeling as though all the air had been punched out of him. “Don't,” he gasped.
“You two could work together,” Bokin went on. “You, the expert on the disease. Crawford, with a new technique for finding and possibly repairing the damaged nerves–”
