Discharge Instructions

Ethan walked to the counter and scribbled on a discharge form. His back was rigid.

"Stay off it for three days," he said, ripping the page off the pad. "Ice. Elevation. Ibuprofen for the swelling."

He turned and handed her the papers. He didn't touch her hand.

"The nurse will bring you crutches," Ethan said. "And she'll wheel you out to the lobby."

"Okay," Sophie said, clutching the papers. She felt cold. "Thanks, Dr. Thorne."

Ethan paused at the curtain. He looked back at her—a small, colorful mess on the gurney with her wrapped ankle.

"Tell Chad," Ethan said, his voice low, "that if he lets you fall again, I’ll fix his nose. And I won't use anesthesia."

He turned and disappeared into the chaos of the ER.

Ten minutes later, Sophie was hopping through the sliding glass doors of the lobby on crutches.

Chad was exactly where Ethan said he would be. He was slumped in a chair, watching a video on his phone without headphones. He looked up as she approached.

"Yo," Chad said, standing up. "You done? That took forever. Did you keep the costume? The tail is the best part."

Sophie looked at him. He was handsome, in a generic way. And he was completely, utterly wrong.

"No," Sophie said. "They had to cut it off."

"Bummer. Ready to go? My car is parked like three blocks away."

"Actually," Sophie said, adjusting her grip on the crutches. "I think I'm going to take an Uber. My ankle really hurts."

"Oh. Okay. Cool. Feel better, babe." Chad looked relieved. He gave her an awkward wave and jogged off toward the parking garage.

Sophie stood alone on the sidewalk under the harsh glare of the ambulance bay lights.

She looked down at the discharge papers in her hand.

Standard instructions. *RICE protocol. Return if symptoms worsen.*

But at the bottom, under the "Follow Up Referral" section, the printer field was blank.

In that space, in messy, sharp black ink, Ethan had written a note.

*(555) 019-2844*

*Text me when you get home so I know you're safe. - E*

Sophie stared at the numbers. It was his personal cell. The one she had deleted from her phone a year ago in a fit of "moving on."

A smile touched her lips, small and genuine.

She pulled out her phone. She typed in the number.

**Me:** *Home safe. The dinosaur is extinct. But the patient is surviving.*

She hit send.

Three seconds later, the three dots appeared.

**Ethan:** *Good. Stay off the foot, Sophie. I’ll come check the wrap tomorrow. 7 PM.*

It wasn't a question. It was an order.

Sophie leaned against the brick wall of the hospital, the night air cool on her face. Her ankle throbbed, her costume was destroyed, and she was technically single again.

But her heart rate? It was still tachycardic. And for the first time in a year, she didn't want to slow it down.