Page 79 of My Best Friend Is Broken
The compliment warms me from the inside out.
The second patient is younger, early twenties, with bruised ribs and a split lip that suggests a fight went badly. He’s nervous, jumpy, clearly in pain but trying not to show it. I recognize the signs immediately. The careful way he holds himself, the way his eyes track every movement in the room, the defensive posture that comes from expecting more violence.
“It’s okay,” I tell him quietly while Dr. Torrino examines his ribs. “The door is locked. It’s just us. No one’s going to jump you.”
The young man looks at me properly for the first time, and something in his expression shifts. Recognition, maybe, of someone who understands. “You’ve been there,” he says. It’s not a question.
“Yeah. I have.”
He relaxes slightly, enough to let Dr. Torrino finish the examination without flinching at every touch. When we’re done, he thanks me specifically, which makes something warm and satisfied settle in my chest.
By lunchtime, we’ve seen six patients. A gunshot wound that miraculously missed anything vital, a dislocated shoulder from “falling down stairs.” Two overdoses that we stabilize before sending them on their way with stern warnings about drug use, and a woman with an infection from a badly done tattoo.
Dr. Torrino and I work in smooth coordination, our movements becoming increasingly synchronized as the morning progresses. He explains things as we go. Such as why he chooses certain antibiotics over others, how to assess whether a wound really can’t avoid hospital care or can be handled here, what signs to watch for that might indicate internal damage.
It’s educational and challenging and absolutely exhilarating.
“Lunch break,” Dr. Torrino announces after the woman with the infected tattoo leaves. “There’s a sandwich shop around the corner. Get us both something, my treat for your first day.”
I practically float to the sandwich shop, still buzzing with the satisfaction of a morning well spent. I’m good at this. Actually good at it. Not just competent or getting by, but genuinely skilled in a way that feels meaningful and important.
As I step back into the clinic with the artisan sandwiches in their brown paper bags, I realize that I just went out by myself. I stood in a queue, placed my order. All like a normal person.
This job really is good for me.
The afternoon brings more variety. A man who cut himself on broken glass and needs stitches, someone withdrawing from heroin who needs medical supervision and his methadone dose adjusting.
Each case is different, each person brings their own story and struggles, and I find myself completely absorbed in the work. There’s no time to worry about my own problems when someone’s sitting in front of me bleeding or scared or in pain. There’s only the immediate need to help, to heal, to make things even slightly better than they were before.
By five o’clock, I’m exhausted but exhilarated. My feet hurt from standing all day, my back aches from bending over patients, and I’m pretty sure I’ve washed my hands at least fifty times. But I feel more alive, more purposeful, more like myself than I have in years.
Dr. Torrino finishes his notes on the last patient and looks up at me with an assessing gaze.
“Well, Liam. What do you think? Still interested in the work?”
“Absolutely,” I say without hesitation. “Today was... it was incredible.”
He smiles, and there’s genuine warmth in his expression. “You did well. Very well, in fact. You have excellent instincts, good hands, and most importantly, you have compassion. That last one is harder to teach than the technical skills.”
The praise hits me like a physical force, warming me from the inside out until I think I might actually burst with pride. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
“I mean it. You’re a natural at this work. I’m very pleased I made the offer.” He stands and starts tidying his desk. “Same time tomorrow?”
“I’ll be here.”
I practically skip out of the office and down to the street where Nicky is waiting in his car. The moment I slide into the passenger seat, everything I’ve been holding in all day comes spilling out.
“It was amazing,” I gush before he can even say hello. “We had this guy with a knife wound, and Dr. Torrino let me do most of the suturing, and then there was this kidwho was so scared but I managed to calm him down, and there were overdoses and infections and this woman who needed antibiotics for…”
“Slow down,” Nicky laughs, pulling out into traffic. “Breathe. Start from the beginning.”
So I do. Without giving any names or descriptions, I tell him about every procedure, every moment when I felt competent and useful and like I was actually making a difference. I talk about Dr. Torrino’s teaching style, about the equipment, about the strange mix of routine medical care and the underlying danger that comes from treating people who live in the shadows.
Nicky listens to all of it with a smile on his face that grows warmer as I talk. His eyes are full of love and pride and understanding, and God, he’s absolutely gorgeous. The afternoon light catches his profile as he drives, highlighting the strong line of his jaw and the way his hair falls just slightly into his eyes.
How did I get so lucky? How did I end up with someone who looks at me like this… like I’m something precious and wonderful instead of broken and damaged?
“I’m so proud of you,” he says when I finally run out of words. “You did it, Liam. You found something you’re good at, something meaningful.”
