Page 84 of Wrong Number Right Doctor

I hate that I smile. “You are.”

Before he can answer, the door opens and another doctor sticks his head in.

“Dalton, I need your—” He stops when he sees me. “Oh. Sorry.”

Dalton’s face changes by approximately one millimeter. “Marcus.”

The man looks from him to me, then back to him, and immediately becomes far too interested. He steps inside.

Mid-forties, maybe. Kind eyes. Tired face. The confident posture of someone who has seen too much and still has a sense of humor, which is either admirable or a warning sign.

“You must be Maggie,” he says.

I blink. “Should I be concerned that you know that?”

“Yes,” Marcus says.

“Marcus,” Dalton says.

“What? She should always be concerned. It keeps people alive.”

I like him immediately.

“I’m Dr. Marcus Webb,” he says. “Friend, colleague, witness to this man’s personality defects.”

“Finally,” I say. “A specialist.”

Marcus grins.

Dalton looks at the ceiling for half a second, like he’s asking something up there for patience.

“I was just leaving,” I say.

“Were you?” Marcus asks, still looking at Dalton.

“Yes,” Dalton says.

Marcus’s eyebrows rise. “Fascinating.”

“Goodbye, Marcus.”

“Pleasure meeting you, Maggie.”

“You too.” I get my bag over my shoulder and head for the door, but Dalton follows me into the hallway.

The hallway is quieter than I expect. A nurse passes with a chart. Somewhere, a monitor beeps. Normal hospital sounds. Usually they calm me. Today, they make everything feel more real.

At the elevator, I stop. “Thank you,” I say.

“For the appointment?”

“For asking how I am.”

His expression stills. Just a little.

“You can tell me,” he says.

I look at him. “That is a dangerous thing to offer.”