Chances were, this guy would go to jail where he would likely be forced to sober up, then he would get out, have a hard time getting a good job because of his record, then all that disappointment would lead him to find ways to feel better, and, almost invariably, that would mean using drugs again. Then crime to fund that habit.
It was a cycle that happened over and over.
“You need help at that clinic,” Seeley countered. “A security system, at the very least. Panic buttons too.”
“It wouldn’t have helped. Not in the moment. It all happened so fast. I just crawled into the supply room,” I told him. “And waited until I thought he was gone. Then I ran for help. I have to figure out the name of the guy who helped me. I know his friend was named Manny. He gave me his shirt.”
“I’ll figure out who it was,” he assured me.
“You’re good at that sort of thing,” I agreed.
Seeley always just… seemed to know everybody. And was able to find anyone or anything he needed. I guess that sort of resilience came from having to raise yourself from such a young age.
It always amazed me growing up, being someone who struggled making any sort of connections. The only real relationships I had with other people were because of their relationships to Seeley.
For a decidedly uncool girl, I always felt sort of cool by association because of him. The guy everyone not only knew, but respected.
It had been one of my biggest insecurities when I was in college. That I would struggle to connect with patients and coworkers.
As it turned out, though, it was just… different.
Patients didn’t want to know me personally. They really didn’t even want to talk about anything but their symptoms. Which made it all easier.
“You hurting?” Seeley asked, snapping me back to the present.
“A little,” I admitted since it was the truth.
“So, is that shit true?” Seeley asked.
“What shit?”
“That shit about doctors being the worst kinds of patients.”
“I guess we’re about to find out,” I said, smirking. “But I don’t want to be here long,” I added.
“They want to keep you for the night. Because of your head,” he told me.
“I don’t need to stay,” I insisted.
“Well, I think we have an answer to that question of mine already,” he declared, a smirk toying with his lips. “You’re staying the night.”
“I can sign myself out anytime I want.”
“And how do you plan to get home?” he asked. “No car. No money. No phone…”
Okay.
He had a point there, I guess.
Even if I wanted to call Michael, I didn’t know his number by heart.
“And, no, I won’t bring you home. Not against doctor’s orders.”
“I’m a doctor,” I reminded him.
“Who needs to be on some IV pain meds and under supervision for a day,” he agreed. “You’ll be out of here tomorrow. You need to try to get some rest.”
“Dr. Stone?” another voice called, making both of us look over.