#reunification

A very young and very exhausted-looking nurse hurried down the hallway, and he called after her, “Hey. Excuse me. Today’s the 17th, right?”

The woman turned around and frowned. 

“Oh, Mr. Buckley. Sorry to keep you waiting, the doctor’s still—”

“Today is November 17, isn't it?”

The nurse’s professional smile cracked. She took a step toward him.

“Please take a seat. You were in the fire, weren’t you?”

“S-so it's not the 17th?” Buck hated that he couldn't suppress his stutter, as if the nervousness that had taken hold of his body had somehow settled on his vocal cords. “It's just that… this calendar is kind of old.”

The nurse glanced briefly at the wall. “It is the 17th, but it's March, of course. All right, you sit down there now and I'll make sure the doctor sees you right away.”

She waited until Buck obediently sat down on the chair before walking away briskly, the rubber soles of her shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor. Absentmindedly, Buck thought it was a good thing he’d sat down, his legs were like jelly. He felt as if he were not quite there, as if he were seeing everything through cotton wool. But it couldn't be a dream. No dream, not even a nightmare, was that detailed. He remembered every minute of the ambulance ride, recalled joking with Pete from the B shift, and even how a brunette nurse had winked at him when he was dropped at the hospital's admission. Not even his coma dream—which Buck was still convinced had shown him an alternative reality, no matter how often Hen teased him for watching too much science fiction—had been so specific.