Drawn Deeper by Brenda Rothert

looked so earnest that I felt for her. Poor kid. Sixteen was a rough age.
    “Give your doctor’s office a call and ask them what your max dosage of ibuprofen is,” I said. “You can usually take more than it says on the bottle. But make sure you ask them for the right dosage.”
    She nodded. “Okay, thanks.”
    “See you this afternoon,” I said, grabbing my car keys. “Or I guess . . . tomorrow morning since you’ll leave when Meredith gets here.”
    “Is she your girlfriend? She’s really pretty.”
    “Ah . . . no. Just a friend. Have a good day, Stephanie.”
    “Thanks.”
    She curled up on the couch with her phone, and I left.
    I’d had the best weekend I could remember in a while. Meredith and I had woken up slowly Saturday morning, both of us sneaking off to brush our teeth before another make out session that left me uncomfortably hard again. Then we’d made bacon and eggs together before she left.
    If she’d used my toothbrush, I didn’t mind. I kind of liked the idea, actually.
    I’d picked up the boys from my parents’ house and had taken them on a spur of the moment trip to St. Louis for the rest of the weekend. We’d had dinner with my youngest brother, Justin, and the four of us had gone to a Cardinals game. We’d stayed the night in the city and spent Sunday at a museum.
    Before I’d insisted on changes to my work schedule, I’d been on call at least half the time on weekends. That meant no drinking and no traveling on those weekends. Now I was only on call one weekend a month, and I enjoyed the freedom to go places with my kids.
    When I walked into my office and said good morning to my scheduler Marla, I felt her eyes studying me.
    “How was your weekend, Dr. Lockhart?” she asked.
    “Great. Took the boys to the Lou. How about you?”
    “Good. I did some quilting and gardening.”
    The two nurses and two nursing assistants who worked in my office wouldn’t be in until later, when I had office hours. After checking in with Marla, I went to the hospital for my scheduled surgeries.
    It was almost six thirty a.m., my favorite time of the workday. I liked seeing the hospital shifting into motion. It was almost time for a shift change. I’d start my surgeries as soon as the operating room team was ready, right at seven.
    I saw several familiar faces as I rounded on patients. Trace Hunt, the owner of the local hardware store, had gotten an emergency appendectomy over the weekend, and he’d insisted on seeing me when I returned.
    “Where were you?” he demanded as soon as I walked into his room, his beady eyes narrowed. “I come into the hospital needin’ surgery, I expect to see Kyle Lockhart standin’ over me with a scalpel, not some out-of-town hack who don’t know shit from shinola!”
    “Dr. Tenleigh works here, Trace. He’s a very good surgeon.”
    “He’s not from here, though. How’m I supposed to trust some guy to cut my gut open when I ain’t never even met him before?”
    I pulled back the bed sheet and pressed gently on his round belly. “Any more pain?”
    He gave me a reluctant look. “No.”
    I sat down in the chair next to his bed. “I read over your chart thoroughly. It was a very clean procedure. You were probably a good forty-eight hours into the appendicitis when you came in, so your appendix needed to come out before I got back.”
    He grunted. “Thought it was just the worst bellyache of my life at first. Then I come in here sure I’m dyin’, and I see some stranger.”
    “I’d trust Dr. Tenleigh to operate on me.”
    “Guy’s an asshole.”
    I couldn’t keep the hint of a smile from my face, because that was true. “You’re on the road to recovery now. Do you have any questions for me?”
    “Where’s my appendix?”
    I furrowed my brow. “Where is it? It was removed.”
    “I want that shit in a jar to put on the counter at the store. I told Dr. What’s His Name, and he didn’t even answer me.”
    “Uh . . . your appendix is long gone,