I stare at the message field for longer than I want to admit.Read the dossier.Three words. The first real sentence I will haveever sent this man. I’ve written and deleted seven different versions in my head over the course of the evening, ranging from professional (“I have completed my review of the briefing document” ) to flirtatious (“Doc, you are a magnificent disaster, how about we make this engagement official?” ) to honest (“I see you, you know?” ), and I have landed on three flat words that say nothing about any of it.
I send it.
Read the dossier.
Three dots appear immediately. The man is awake at 11:47 p.m. on a Tuesday. Of course he is.
And?
It's incredible. Very thorough. I have one note.
What note?
Section 2. You spelled “surveillance” wrong in the auntie network diagram.
A pause. A long, terrible, beautiful pause.
Arjun: I most certainly did not.
Page 14. Third box from the left. “Surveilance.”
Another pause. I can picture him perfectly. He's probably in some immaculate high-rise condo, sitting at some absurdly expensive desk, and he's pulling up the PDF, and he's scrolling to page fourteen, and his jaw is tightening, and his ears are turning pink.
That is a scanning artefact.
It's a typo, Doc.
I have a medical degree and a surgical fellowship at Lakeshore Memorial. I do not make typographical errors.
Page 14. Third box. Very clearly one L where there should be two.
Goodnight, Dr. Welling.
Night, Doc. See you tomorrow.
I put the phone down on my chest and stare at the ceiling of my apartment. Oliver sighs against my leg. The Leafs are down 4-1 and have clearly given up. Outside, a streetcar rumbles past, and somewhere in the building, someone is playing music, something soft and warm that I can't quite identify through the walls.
Wednesday. Tomorrow. I will be on a plane to Rajasthan, sitting next to a man whose hand I held in this kitchen forty-eight hours ago, flying toward a family of aristocratic, colour-coded, astrologically motivated relatives who are expecting me to be the love of his life.
I reach over and scratch Oliver behind the ear. He groans and rolls onto his back, presenting his belly with the total, undefended trust of a creature who has never in his life had a reason to be afraid of love.
“I'm in so much trouble, bud,” I whisper.
His tail thumps once against the couch cushion.
Yeah. He knows.
Chapter 5
Gabriel Knows Everything
Arjun
Ireturn to the hospital on Wednesday morning for one reason and one reason only: to sign the paperwork for my leave of absence.
That is the plan. It is a clean, efficient, surgically definite plan. I will enter through the south atrium to avoid the main lobby. I will take the service elevator to the administrative floor. I will sign the forms that Human Resources has prepared, deliver the stack of post-operative monitoring instructions I left for Dr. Patel, who is covering my cases, and exit the building in under thirty minutes. I will not go near the paediatric floor. I will not look through any windows. I will not think about supply closets.
The plan fails in approximately ninety seconds.