“Do you need a doctor?”
The back-passenger door opened, and Archer climbed in.
“I don’t need a doctor,” the cranky one grumbled.
“But you’re bleeding. It looks bad. It might need stitches.”
“It doesn’t need stitches.”
“How do you know? You can’t see it. We should take you to the doctor.” It was going to be a painful drive into town, but better that than have this guy die on her. All right, it wasn’t bleeding that much. But what if he had a concussion?
“I’m a doctor.”
“You’re a doctor?” she asked skeptically.
“Yeah. Why’s that such a surprise? I don’t look like a doctor?”
Not really but that wasn’t it…
“Are you a good doctor?”
He turned more fully towards her.
“What? Yes,” he said with clear irritation in his voice.
“No need to get grumpy, just seems to me that if you were a decent doctor, you’d want to look at the wound before deciding if you need stitches. But then you did hit your head.” She turned to look back at Archer. “Did he lose consciousness?”
“Ahh, no, I don’t think he lost consciousness.”
“Oh good. ‘Cause if he did, you’d need to wake him in the night to make sure he’s okay.”
“I’m a doctor,” Dr. Cranky said loudly. “I know all of that.”
“And remember, I’m a doctor too,” Archer claimed. “Don’t worry, he’s in good hands.”
The other guy snorted, as though disagreeing. She leaned towards the guy in the front, pointing back towards Archer. “What? He’s not very good?”
“He’s a psychiatrist.”
She straightened. “Ahh. Say no more.”
“Hey!” Archer complained from the back.
“So the two of you are doctors? Is that how you met?”
“We’re brothers,” Archer explained.
“Oh.”
“Although so
metimes I feel more like his keeper,” Archer muttered.
“Can we get moving?” Dr. Cranky asked.
“Sure. No need to get all irritable.” She turned off the hazard lights and put her truck in drive. The gears crunched. She really needed that service.
“Are you a good driver?” Dr. Cranky asked.