Busy days are both your favorite and most hated kind of day. Your favorite because 8+ hours will come and go in no time at all. Your most hated because it really brings to light how often people need medical attention. You’ll shuffle through hundreds of patients like nothing, and if they’re lucky, they won’t be in your company for more than ten minutes.
Your next patient will be quick, you think. You don’t look at the name, only the ailment, your nose in your clipboard as you shuffle to the room they’d been put in. A suspected concussion, eh? If they had come of their own accord, it couldn’t be awful.
You enter like you usually would, a knock on the doorframe before letting yourself in. You begin to introduce yourself and apologize for the wait, but the words die in your throat when you see the patient at hand. Slack-jawed, you eye the chart-- sure enough, Dave O. P. Strider was scrawled along the top. You set the clipboard on the desk, shut the door behind you, and cross your arms. You quirk a brow above the black lenses of your reading glasses, “Of all the ways I could have found you, I never thought “concussed in a hospital” would be one of them.”
