Page 7 of No Greater Love
"Oh," Mr. Taylor said again, this time actually looking at me. "Well. That's... thank you."
I waited for Nathan to move on, to go back to his other patients and leave me to stew in my irritation. Instead, he lingered.
"That was a good catch," he said quietly. "The warfarin-NSAID interaction. Most people would have missed it."
I blinked. He'd noticed. He'd actually been paying attention to my work, not just his own.
"It's my job," I said, but the words came out less sharp than I'd intended.
"Still. Good work."
He walked away then, leaving me standing there feeling oddly off-balance. It wasn't the praise that threw me; I was used to being good at my job. It was thewayhe'd said it. Like he actually meant it. Like he'd been watching my work with genuine respect, not just waiting for his turn to look competent.
I watched him stop at the next bed, where Mrs. Garcia was arguing with her daughter about discharge planning. His voice was patient, kind, as he explained the home care instructions for the third time. No condescension. No frustration. Just... professional competence mixed with genuine compassion.
The man was irritatingly impossible to dislike.
Which was exactly the problem.
I'd spent three years perfecting the art of keeping people at a distance. A sharp comment here, a perfectly timed eye roll there, just enough attitude to make sure no one got too comfortable, too familiar, too close. It worked. It kept me safe.
But Nathan Crawford didn't seem to notice my carefully crafted defenses. Or maybe he noticed and just... didn't care.
Either way, it was unsettling.
three
nate
5:45 AMcame too early, as it always did on Saturday mornings. I'd been up since 5:15, moving through my pre-shift routine with the same methodical precision I brought to everything else. Shower, shave, uniform pressed and ready. Coffee brewing while I double-checked Paige's schedule for the day.
Mrs. Swanson was still in Chicago visiting her daughter, had been for three days now, and wasn't due back until later today. Which left me scrambling for childcare on one of the busiest days of the week.
"College Meghan", as she was listed in my phone’s contact list, wasn't my first choice. Hell, she wasn't my fifth choice. But when you're a single parent with a 6:45 AM punch-in time… sometimes you have to make do with what you can get.
Meghan Morgan was a nursing student at the community college, recommended by Maria's cousin who worked in the cafeteria. Twenty years old, responsible enough to maintain a 3.5 GPA, and desperate enough for babysitting money to agree to spend her Saturday shuttling an eleven-year-old around the city. The plan was simple: meet in the Metro General parking lot at 6:30, hand off Paige for a day at the science museum and whatever else they could find to fill the time, then meet back at 7:15 PM when my shift ended.
It wasn't ideal—I hated not knowing exactly where Paige would be every minute of the day—but Meghan had promised to text me updates, and the science museum was safe, educational, and would keep Paige entertained for hours.
"Dad, you're doing the thing again," Paige said from the passenger seat, not looking up from her book.
"What thing?"
"The checking-your-watch-every-thirty-seconds thing." She looked at me with amused exasperation. "It's 6:25. We're here exactly on time, like always."
I forced myself to stop looking at my watch. The Metro General parking lot was starting to fill with the day shift arriving, but no sign of a beat-up Honda Civic with the dented front bumper.
"Just making sure we're coordinated," I said, scanning the lot again.
The digital clock on my dashboard flipped to 6:30 AM. No sign of Meghan.
"Dad?" Paige looked up from her book, concern creeping into her voice. "Shouldn't she be here by now?"
"She's probably just running a little late, sweetie." I kept my voice even, masking the anxiety that was already building in me.
Six thirty-two.
I pulled out my phone and dialed Meghan again. Straight to voicemail. Again.
