He points to his chest.
“Your lungs hurt?”
“Yes.”
“How long has this been going on?”
This time, Foxy answers for him.
“About two weeks. My mom brought him in last week,” she says. “Max is my little brother.”
“And what did the doctor say when your mom brought him in?” I ask.
“She said that he shouldn’t run as much.”
I sigh. The doctor who treated him was on her way out the door. She was retiring, and unfortunately, from what I can tell, she definitely acted like it. Patients should receive the same standard of care no matter when they visit a doctor, but that didn’t seem to happen at this clinic.
“Well, it sounds like there’s a little more going on than just running too much,” I say lightly. Foxy nods.
“Yeah, that’s what I told my mom.”
I look at Max’s chart again. The doctor didn’t run any tests. She didn’t do x-rays. She did nothing at all.
Looking at Max, he appears to be very healthy. I know why the doctor skipped doing in-depth testing. Sometimes, testing can be uncomfortable for a shifter cub and it’s not something most people would ordinarily just try to do. Max’s case is a little different, though.
“It looks like he’s come in several times in the last year for his asthma. Is that right?”
“Yep.”
“And when do his flare-ups tend to happen?” I look at Foxy.
“They’re random,” she says. “At least, my mom said they are.”
“What do you think, Max?” I look at the little guy. He’s sitting perfectly still with his hands in his lap. “When does your chest hurt?”
“I don’t know.”
“What about, at school?”
He cocks his head for a second, thinking.
“Sometimes in PE.”
“When you’re running?”
“Yeah.”
“What about when you’re doing other physical things? Do you ever dance?”
Max blushes.
“Hey, nothing wrong with dancing, my man,” I tell him with a grin. “I love to dance.” I break into some silly dance moves and he starts giggling.
“Sometimes,” he says.
“Swimming?”
“Sometimes,” he says again.