She slipped the gloves off and balled them up, one in the other. She dropped them unceremoniously in her bin and pondered heightening her toxin disposal measures.

The sun shone above the clinic, its rays angry and unforgiving in the hot California summer. She’d given up on wearing undershirts under her scrubs a long time ago. This wasn’t the ER. The AC hummed its vague little tune up above her desk, doing its best to ease the dry heat. As Samira washed her hands at the sink, the door chime tinkled again. She looked up, letting out a huff. It hadn’t even been ten minutes since the skater kids had left the clinic.

“Dr. Samira?”

She recognized that voice. The small girl who came in here two weeks ago with her stuffed bunny and guard dog of an uncle. Lena. 

Samira dried her hands on a paper towel, turning toward the waiting area. Moisture still clung to her hands, unmanicured and rough from her constant washes. Lena stood near the entrance, clutching the same stuffed rabbit from last week, its big patchwork ears bent unevenly like she accidentally lay on the bunny in her sleep. And sure enough, behind her was the same man from last week. Pope, who looked like the exact opposite of someone who should be in a community clinic on a warm Tuesday afternoon.

“Hi, Lena,” she greeted warmly, sitting down to her level. The girl’s hair was tied in a messy ponytail, some strands plastered to her forehead. 

She looked up at Pope. The same sun-bleached auburn hair, tired eyes hidden between the shadow of a gray baseball cap. His lip wasn’t quite twisted in worry like the last time they’d dropped by the place. Simply a little downturned, the thin line of his mouth tense.

“What brings you here?” Samira brought her gaze back to the kid, assessing her for any injuries. The wound by her head had healed nicely, now with a small scab over it—not picked. Perhaps her parents had told her to take care of it.

“Mr. Bunny is hurt.”

Samira held back a smile, her face straining to remain very serious. She exhales softly as she looks up at Pope, one curious eyebrow raised.

“She has a fever,” he said bluntly, hazel eyes honing in on her.

“Oh.”

She murmured, looking at the girl again. Lena wasn’t pale at all, and her wound healing looked to be normal. Samira’s hand, tanned from a few too many mornings at the beach, pressed gently against the girl’s forehead. Warm, but not in the way she used to encounter in the ER. Her skin felt sun-kissed and soft, not uncomfortably taut the way a feverish kid’s did. 

“Okay, hop on up there for me.”

She’d gotten the stepping stool for the rare occasion a child came in for a checkup. But before Samira could nudge it to help Lena get up on her examination bench, Pope swooped in and carried her, little shoe-clad feet grazing against the cabinet beneath the seat. Her eyes went involuntarily to the man’s arms—they drew attention even if she was sure he didn’t want them to. Thick, tan from the sun. Freckled. A thought entered her mind. He’d be nice to draw blood from.

Samira blinked and looked away, retrieving her flower-patterned pouch from her desk. She slung her stethoscope over her shoulders, walking back to check on Lena. She’d sat Mr. Bunny beside her, his small stitched mouth set in a polite smile. Samira smiled, bringing her stethoscope to the girl’s chest.

For her usual clients, she could get away with just this for an examination. She’d listen to the patient’s heart, check for wounds, and end up with a few bills in her pocket. The clinic had somehow attracted a crowd of shady older people who went to her for routine checkups and medicine prescriptions. She didn’t know what they used her medical advice for, and rather wouldn’t know.

But for Lena and her hovering uncle, she took it slower, like she wanted to.

 “How long?” she asked, looking up at Pope.

“Started this morning.” His low voice carried that same clipped quality she remembered. He crossed his arms over his dark brown shirt, weight shifting onto one hip.  “She said her stomach hurt too.”

Lena shifted beside her uncle, bunny tucked tighter beneath her arm now. “Doesn’t hurt now.”

Samira hummed softly under her breath. “Throw up at all?”

A small shake of Lena’s head.

She nodded to herself, bringing out her thermometer. Why she put in so much effort for this little girl, she didn’t know. It wasn’t about the money Pope had handed her two weeks ago. It wasn’t even about her quiet, endearing stare and her stuffed bunny. Samira dropped some isopropyl alcohol onto a cotton ball, wiping the metal tip of the thermometer.

“Okay, I’m gonna put this under your arm, and it’ll tell me if you have a fever.”

“Will it hurt?”

Samira looked up at Pope. He rapidly averted his eyes from hers, like he’d been staring at her neck the entire time. She chose to ignore the small twinge deep in her ribcage. “She’s never gotten her temperature taken?”

“Never needed it,” he mumbled, large fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt. A few deep wrinkles were scattered across the hemline, folded by his hands. When her eyes darted down to the sight, he let go of the fabric. His voice almost sounded defensive.

She let out a sound of assent, returning her attention to Lena. “No, it won’t hurt. It might be a little cold, though.”

Lena nodded solemnly, one small hand tightening around Mr. Bunny while Samira slipped the thermometer beneath the girl’s arm. Her shoulders lifted instinctively at the cool metal.

“Cold,” Lena informed her gravely.

“I warned you.”

Samira smiled faintly to herself, glancing toward the small timer on the acrylic screen of the thermometer. The room settled into that peculiar kind of quiet it always seemed to carry. Cars swept by outside, their engines rumbling angrily as if announcing their drivers had someplace else to be. Wood clicked under Lena’s heels as she kicked gently against the cabinet.

Pope stood a few feet away, unwilling to let his niece out of his vicinity even for a minute. He didn’t pace, feet planted firmly on the tiled ground. His gaze was pointed at something on the ground. When she followed his line of sight, it landed on the loose tile she’d half-heartedly kicked down into place after she tripped on it. 

After a few unfortunate encounters at PTMC, Samira knew when a parent lied. She memorized the way voices would rise when questioned, the exact cadence of we’d never do that! Our kid would never do that! And whatever attachment Pope had with his niece wasn’t that. He was quiet. Calm, even. More focused on what was in the doctor’s clinic than what the doctor would say. His stormy demeanor reflected in Lena’s—the inevitable way a loved one picked up on someone’s mannerisms. 

“You take care of her often?” Samira probed, tilting her head slightly.

“Sometimes.”

Silence hung in the sterile clinic air, Lena looking up at the two adults like their quiet would be the answer to all her big questions. 

“...Her mom works,” Pope added after a second. 

“Ah.”

Before he could ponder whether to respond, the thermometer beeped shrilly under Lena’s arm. Samira gently took it, turning the screened face up. 100F. Warm, but just below a fever. She looked up at Pope at the same time Lena did. He shrugged, broad shoulders hunching ever-so-slightly.

“Not a fever,” Samira said, wiping the tip of the thermometer with cotton again. “A little warm, though.”

Lena looked oddly disappointed. Maybe she was imagining it, but Samira smiled and patted her shoulder with a gentle hand. She set the thermometer aside and leaned down slightly, resting one hand against the edge of the examination bench. Pope crossed his arms back over his chest, glancing up at the AC.

“This isn’t related to your head, so we’re in the clear. Where did your tummy hurt?”

“In the middle,” Lena said. She patted her abdomen with a small hand. “But it was gone very fast.”

“What did she eat for breakfast?”

“Cereal,” Pope answered, voice gruff. “...I couldn’t cook, had somewhere to be.”

“It’s okay. Cereal is the breakfast of champions.”

Lena cracked a smile, her warm brown eyes lighting up in a rare happy expression. Nothing, Samira thought, could pull at her heartstrings like making a kid like this smile. Her attendings had always told her she was good with the elderly. Somewhere slow, gentle, where treatments were routine, and she could sit down to listen to long stories about apple pies and grandchildren.

She was in California now and saw everyone. Including these kids in need of her help.

“I had nice cold milk too,” Lena added helpfully.

“Okay. It might just be a bug you picked up from school.”

“But we’re on vacation…”

“Germs don’t take vacations, sweetie.”

Lena looked up at Pope. The man nodded, his hard-set expression loosening in something Samira chose to interpret as satisfaction. His eyes then returned to the floor, and the cursed yellowing tile she felt self-conscious about now. The clinic wasn’t exactly the nicest place, but it was what she could afford after moving her entire life across the country. Yellowing around the edges from years of wear and probably nicotine use. The landlord kept promising she’d let Samira refurbish, but never followed through when she asked about it.

“I keep meaning to get that repaired,” Samira said.

“Hm?” Pope looked up.

“The tile.” She pointed downward. “One day I’m gonna trip over it hard enough to…” She makes a little gesture with her hand, tapping the side of her head with the heel of her palm. Lena laughed, seemingly all better just from the sight of the doctor.

“You should fix it,” Pope said plainly.

“I should fix a lot of things.”

The words slipped out of her mouth before she could stop them from tumbling out on their own accord. Bad habit. She’d vowed to stop talking so much to patients and their companions since the day she’d run her stupid mouth about her father. Pope stayed quiet, the silence solemn rather than uncomfortable, as it had been when that had happened.

Samira cleared her throat lightly, returning her attention to Lena. “Anyway, you’re not sick, Lena. Maybe it’s just hot, and you drank cold milk on an empty stomach. But I’ll give your uncle some medicine that can make you better if you feel worse.”

The girl nodded, trying to step down from the bench. Again, before Samira could kick the little stepping stool to catch her feet, Pope carried her back down, setting her gently on the floor.

“Are you sure?” Pope asked, his face hardening back into the mask he always seemed to wear.

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“Do you have a bathroom, Doctor?” Lena’s little voice said tentatively, setting Mr. Bunny on the blue plastic chair closest to her uncle. Pope’s fingers twitched slightly, pinky lifting as if he were in half a mind to touch the worn toy. 

“Mhm. Over there,” Samira pointed at a wooden door in the corner of the clinic, robin’s egg blue paint chipping off slightly. Lena trodded to the bathroom, leaving the adults to linger in each other’s silences again. 

Something about Pope made Samira want to talk too much. Words rose up in her throat, questions tightening against it while she turned around. Where are her parents? Where are you from? What do you do for work? She swallowed them all, keeping them locked in her chest where they could fester safely. The girl was a kid, probably doing okay in whatever elementary school she went to. But Pope? He could be dangerous, for all she knew. A dealer. A thief. A criminal. Someone who could lie through his teeth and make it seem like breathing. And yet she opened her mouth anyway.

“Lena’s with you a lot?”

Pope nodded, his head tilting slightly. His hand went to pat down the side of his curls, the faintest hint of gray peeking at his temples. The crisp sound of scissors cutting into the material broke the quiet, Lena’s medicine dropping neatly on her desk. When Samira busies herself with scrawling Lena’s information in her logbook, Pope clears his throat.

“I can help fix your…” He left the sentence unfinished, like he thought she’d know what he meant.

“My what?” 

“Whatever,” Pope mumbled, looking down at something. Oh. The tile.

“My floor?”

“Your office.”

“You’re a handyman?” Samira asked, finally turning to look at him. She folded her arms over her navy scrubs, trying to reconcile this awkward version of him to the one who walked through her door two weeks ago.

“Sort of.”

Samira clicked her pen shut, tucking it into her hair. She thought she saw Pope’s eyes linger on the motion, but when she blinked, he was observing the blue-and-white striped curtains that fluttered against the clinic’s window frames. She walked toward him, pressing the blister pack of acetaminophen against his loosely closed fist. 

“If she does develop a fever, take one of those. One in the morning and at night. And they’re chewable.”

Pope nodded blankly, closing his hand around the medicine and tucking it into the pocket of his worn denim jeans. He shifted on his heels, a quiet breath escaping him. A slow swallow went down his throat, seemingly lingering before he could get himself to talk.

“Do you… treat injuries?"

“That’s actually what this clinic’s mostly for. I get a lot of injuries. All the skaters, surfers, that crowd.”

He nodded again, rubbing his hand over his mouth. Before he could say anything else, Lena emerged from the bathroom and plucked a paper towel from Samira’s box.

“See, Uncle Pope? I wash my hands.”

“Great job, munchkin.”

Samira’s lips curved up into a smile.

As Lena picked up Mr. Bunny from the plastic chair, Pope pulled out his wallet again. Brown leather, unassuming, tattered at the edges. He thumbed nimbly through the sparse bills inside, keeping an eye on his niece. Samira held up a hand. She couldn’t accept these payouts from what seemed to be a normal family. Sure, she’d gotten hundreds from men who asked her not to blab to authorities, but Lena was just a kid.

Pope met her gaze, thumb pausing at the edges of his cash. He pulls out a crisp fifty and a slightly wrinkled twenty, folding them into threes before handing them to her. 

“I… less is okay.”

“No, take it.”

“I—” The look he gave her shut her up quickly. “Thank you?”

He nodded, hand enveloping Lena’s small one. The girl swung her arm forward and back, but his barely moved. His hand stayed still and steady at his side, heavy but curling around hers. Samira caught a glimpse of a large burn mark on his broad palm, healed and scarred over as if it didn’t exist in the first place. 

“If you need it, here's the clinic phone.”

Samira scrawls the landline down on a small piece of green memo pad, handing it to him. “For Lena, or if you need anything else.”

“Okay. Thanks,” Pope answered, still unmoving despite Lena’s attempts to tug him toward the door. He folded the memo and put it in the same pocket he’d tucked the blister pack into. 

“Can we get ice cream?”

“We need to get you lunch first. You have medicine for if you get bad again.”

Lena looked up at Samira after she pondered Pope's statement. “My Uncle Pope is always sad and won’t let me get ice cream.”

He let out a noncommittal huff, finally moving from his spot in the center of the clinic. He shook his head, protesting Lena’s passionate declaration.

“Your Uncle Pope is smart, and you should listen to him,” Samira said. “He’ll get you ice cream after lunch.”

The girl nodded, holding Mr. Bunny loosely in her little hand. Samira smiled quietly to herself, sliding Lena’s file back into the drawer beside her desk. The metal tracks stuck slightly before giving way with a disapproving creak. Another thing she should fix. Maybe she’d take him up on his offer and see if he did a decent job with metal. 

“Bye, Doctor,” Lena said, pausing at the doorframe.

“Bye, Lena. Stay healthy out there.”

“Thanks, Dr. Mohan,” Pope said gruffly.

“Please, call me Samira.”

He nodded, bringing his cap down to shield his eyes. When the door shut, the silence fell upon the clinic again and the two had disappeared into the hot Oceanside summer. Everything settled around her, back to what they should be. Cars passing by, surfers yelling in the far distance, the AC humming as it strained to cool her little office. The loose tile sitting crooked like it had since the day she moved her things in. 

Samira stared at it for a long moment.

Then quietly, for reasons she couldn’t entirely explain, she nudged it back into place with the toe of her shoe.