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and kids. Maybe I shouldn’t refer to him as St. Puke in my head anymore? After all, he’s a human being too, worthy of respect just as much as anyone else…
    “Sarah,” he snaps, forcing me out of my reverie.
    “Actually, it’s Sophie,” I say.
    He responds with a forced, tight smile. “Could you look at the vitals on Mr. Evans please.”
    It sounds more like a command than a request.
    “Sure.”
    I’m not even sure why I’m doing this. He could easily look it up himself. But, a teeny, tiny part of me wants his approval, and to look like a team player. So I retrieve Mr. Evans’s chart.
    “Has he been febrile?” St. Puke asks.
    “Umm…”
    Febrile, febrile.

    What does “febrile” mean again? Come on, Sophie, you know this! It’s basic terminology.
    He lifts his glasses to his forehead.
    “You do know what ‘febrile’ means, don’t you?”
    “Of course I do!” I say, my voice high and pinched. “It’s, umm…”
    He sighs, snatches the chart from my hands, and silently reviews.
    “Yes, he has been febrile.”
    He leans toward me, looks right into my eyes, and whispers with great enunciation, “Febrile. F-E-B-R-I-L-E!”
    I just want to crawl into a hole and die.
    “It means, Sarah, that he’s had a fever.”
    He snaps the chart shut, and frowns at me. “Maybe you and I should review my basic terminology textbook. I can explain the big words to you.”
    He stands before I can say anything (not that I could—I’m frozen to my chair) and marches away.
    —
    I subtly shake my head, bringing my thoughts back to the present.
    “Good afternoon, Dr. St. Luke,” replies our unit clerk.
    “Well,” he says, after taking good, pointed looks at all of us, waiting to go home. “It seems that we have too much time on our hands.” He motions to us to sit down.
    Bastard.
    I get up when he’s not looking and walk to the end of the unit.
    All the way down, I take deep, calming breaths and try to focus on the positive. Like, seeing Brett soon. I’m in the middle of fantasizing about his biceps just begging to be freed from the confines of his T-shirt when I notice a woman crying on the couch we keep in the common area.

    It’s Larry’s wife, Lorna. They really are cute together. Larry and Lorna, until death do us part. Only for them, death is coming all too soon. Stupid cancer.
    I approach quietly. “Hi, Lorna.”
    She looks up at me, her face pink and puffy. I sit down beside her on the couch.
    Lorna rubs at her nose. “Sorry for blubbering.”
    “No need to apologize,” I say. “You love him.”
    Her eyes well up with fresh tears, and she nods vigorously.
    “Do you want to talk about Larry? Share some memories, maybe?”
    She seems surprised at first that I’d want to know, but it doesn’t take her long to get into it. She tells me about their first date (she threw up twice due to the flu, but it must’ve been love because he asked her out again the next day), their wedding, their vacations, their kids, their hopes and dreams, their struggles.
    She smiles at some memories, cries at others.
    She eventually talks about Larry being sick.
    “I just wish this wasn’t happening. Sometimes I feel like it’s a dream, like I’ll wake up and it will all just be a horrible, terrible nightmare.”
    A shiver passes through me.
    I know the feeling.
    We visit for a while, and I glance at my watch. I was supposed to meet Brett half an hour ago! I give Lorna a hug and tell her I’ll see her tomorrow. The unit clerk calls out to me as I pass the front desk.

    “A tall, blond piece of man candy was here looking for you,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows up and down.
    “Do you know where he went?”
    “He said he’d wait for you in the cafeteria.”
    —
    I reach the cafeteria and spot him reading a weather-beaten magazine.
    “Those are probably the dirtiest things in the hospital,” I say.
    He looks up and smirks at me. And then, realizing that I meant the magazines, he grimaces and drops the