Her name ran through his mind again, Becky Friessen. Tom Campbell could honestly say she was the first patient he’d had on this bed who had shocked him, considering he’d seen all manner of people and crazies in his first year of residency. Blood spattered her blouse, and shock that bordered on fear filled her blue eyes, which seemed a little mysterious and a lot stubborn. It was quite a contrast, as was the girl resting on the gurney, waiting for him to stitch up her finger.

“I promise I know what I’m doing,” he said. He did, considering he spent more time doing scud work and everything all the other doctors tossed his way than anything else, all because he was now a second-year resident—and the fact that he’d gotten on the wrong side of Philomena Grotto, head of ER.

What he’d expected to find as he pulled back the curtains was a teen with attitude and hysterics along with a healthy dose of drama, but instead he’d discovered a young lady with hovering parents who intrigued him more than he wanted.

“You promise? Like, seriously, how do I know you know what you’re doing or that my finger is now frozen and I’m not going to feel a thing? For all I know, you could start stitching and, oops, guess it didn’t take! So sorry about that.”

Smart, too, and not trusting. Hmm. He wanted to smile at her sarcasm and at the same time had to fight the pull of his lips, though, from the way her brow quirked, he evidently hadn’t hid it fast enough.

“You find this amusing?” she asked as she slid her hand back to the small table he had covered with a surgical drape stacked with gauze and instruments. He could see her hesitancy and at the same time the courage she was doing her best to muster.

“No, impressed. So tell me about this news that had you so distracted you mistook your finger for a—”

“Cucumber,” she said. She must have really leaned on that knife. He took in the cut, how deep it was, and the fact that she was now looking at him and not her hand.

“Cucumber, wow. Would hate to see the bloody mess on the kitchen counter. Cutting anything with a knife isn’t good when you’re distracted,” he said. That was probably the number one reason people ended up in the emergency room, and he couldn’t count the number of times someone had cut a finger off. He was staring at the cut, his hand on her wrist, feeling her pulse pounding. Still, at the same time, she was coming down a bit from her adrenaline high.

“I haven’t really decided what I want to do. I was taking an extra year of high school, a couple courses I figured I need for college, mainly because I need to graduate, and I picked what I thought was a good choice for whatever my dream occupation is—which, for the life of me, hasn’t hit me yet. Apparently I’m now finished, and, long story, the school called, talked to my dad, so now I get to decide on colleges, send applications. The big question everyone is waiting for me to answer is what am I planning to be? But my mom is always poking and questioning, and when I don’t come up with a plan, she directs me where she thinks I should go, but I guarantee you I don’t want to go there. So now, after I’m out of here, Mom’s going to be putting out her ideas about what I should do, and every one of them will make me miserable. Understand now?”

“Becky, very few know what they want to do, but they still enroll in college and take some courses until they figure it out. Sometimes just getting a job and going back later is what works best. Tell your mom that,” Tom said. Then there were some who never seemed to figure out what they wanted to do, just like his brother, who was more interested in good times, drinking, and picking up dead-end jobs until he lost them a month later and called Tom, asking for a handout. He wondered whether he’d ever get his act together. Then there were his parents. Best not think too long and hard in that direction.

“What about you? Did you know you wanted to be a doctor?”

He glanced up after he put in a stitch, knotting it. “Pretty much. It’s something I’ve wanted every since I was a kid. I guess I’m lucky.” He’d been the one having to patch his brother up as a child. His mom, too—ice for a blackened eye, swollen nose, twisted arm, broken collarbone, or bruised rib.

“So there was never anything else that excited you or that you thought you might like to do, like be a mechanic or a cook?”

He finished the last stitch, knotted it, and cut it before squeezing saline over the wound. He took in the teasing smile on her face, not knowing if she was kidding or serious. “No, I had no interest in being a mechanic, even though now I have a great one and have a lot of respect for the guy. I drive in and leave my car when it needs fixing and pick it up later when it’s done. Cooking…the closest I come is frying an egg, and even then it tastes like rubber, and the toast is always burnt. I learned to call out for dinner, leave it to the pros and to those who love it. Even those premade frozen dinners at the grocery store aren’t half bad.” He took in Becky, this nineteen-year-old with her future ahead of her and parents he could see loved her. Did she have any idea how much more she had than half the people in the world?

“So you have no one to cook for you, no wife, girlfriend?” she said after he dabbed cotton gauze over the wound and then covered it in a fresh bandage and taped it.

“I’m a resident and spend most of my waking hours at the hospital. If I were married, I’d likely already be divorced. A relationship needs time, and my time is devoted to the hospital. The only time I see my home is when I make it home to sleep, and the few hours of those I get, I swear at times I should just have a room here at the hospital.” He couldn’t believe he’d said that out loud as he took in Becky and the lovely smile she had. It was bright and wide as she lifted her other hand and tucked back her shoulder-length hair, which hung loose and layered. He knew flirting, and this girl was now zeroing in. Not good.

“That sucks. So you have no time for any sort of life out of the hospital? I can’t imagine the time you put in here. That’s dedication. So you never have time for coffee or…”

He was staring at her, seeing how she was waiting for him to, what, ask her out? Nineteen, remember? he reminded himself. Not someone who should be involved with the likes of him.

“You’re done, five stitches,” he said. “I’ll get your antibiotics and paperwork done and go tell your parents, and then you’re out of here.” He was up and standing, grabbing the chart at the end of the bed.

“Thank you,” she said, which he hadn’t expected. As he glanced down at her, she wasn’t trying to work him as other women did, talk him into coffee, a date. She was behaving off script and different from other women her age as she rested her bandaged hand over her stomach before offering him a sad smile and pulling back into her mystery.

As he stepped out of the curtained area, taking one last look at Becky Friessen, he didn’t see a child or someone’s daughter. What he saw was a woman who wasn’t interested in chasing him down or working some angle, and he’d never admit to anyone how that bothered him in a way that wasn’t rational—because now he was angry.