Mercy 6 by David Bajo Page A

inside the boiler, felt the sweat from her workout returning, reblooming along her forehead. She stepped out and addressed Cabral. “His eyes,” she said. “You didn’t touch his eyes.”
    â€œNo, Doctor. You caught me doing that once. Told me never to do that. Close their eyes.”
    She nodded. She didn’t remember. She looked at his name tag, saw the A. after his last name. She had no idea what it stood for.
    â€œYou did good work, Cabral.”
    It sounded okay like that, somehow equal. Egalitarian, Mullich would have said.
    â€œWill they put me in Q?” Cabral asked her.
    She put a shushing finger to her lips. She nodded for him to leave. He had a resolute bearing about him, not forced but new.
    She hadn’t noticed it before. She saw it in patients sometimes, quiet internal decisions to go forth after seeing an X-ray, learning the extent of an injury, hearing bad news from her.
    After the tech left she spoke to Mullich. “I can’t tell Claiborne.
    I doubt he would even speak with me.”
    Mullich raised one eyebrow.
    â€œI almost did a very bad thing up there. Which is the same as doing the bad thing.” She pointed upward to the ER. “Pao Pao saw it. Dmir saw it. Everyone saw it. Don’t even mention my name when you tell Claiborne. Unless you want him to hate you, too.”
    â€œWhat will Thorpe do?”
    â€œThorpe will be okay with it,” she said. “He’ll like it. That I backed down. That I gave in.”
    â€œI have a theory, Dr. Mendenhall. That you and Thorpe are the same.”
    She lifted her chin. “Yeah? I have a theory that you are Thorpe.”
    Mullich took more of his laser calibrations. Mendenhall leaned against the cool wall across from the boilers, crossed her arms, and watched. Mullich took a vertical measurement from the outside edge of the old boiler to the ceiling. He moved easily into a crouch, pivoted with no excess movement. But in between measurements, he repeatedly glanced at her.
    â€œWhat?” she asked.
    â€œCortez.”
    â€œThose are personal. I offer nothing about what’s going on in here. You and Thorpe can go—”
    Still in his crouch, Mullich put his hand up, then brought it to his chest. “He showed them to me. I—”
    â€œYou what? You just did your job.”
    â€œNo. That’s not my job.” He stood. “I only wanted to ask you something. Something about your dog.”
    Her anger turned to fear. How much of her did he want to peel away? “At least you knew he was a dog.”
    Mullich remained on point. “Do you miss him, or do you regret not having that life? That life one can have with a dog?”
    â€œThe second thing,” she said. “But no. Both.”
    â€œPeople,” he replied. The word heightened his accent, the e a bit short. “People like Cabral and Silva. They are drawn to you. They want something from you.”
    â€œCabral and Silva are nothing alike. Cabral’s a med tech, a hoddy.
    You don’t even need a college degree. Silva’s a research tech. She has that and more. She’s probably Brazilian. He’s Filipino. But you’re right. They both have brown skin.”
    He bristled, which was what she was trying for. He remained in his crouch, his laser pen aimed at her. “I am not like that. You know this. But I don’t like the joke. I meant they are both people who want to learn what medicine is. What it really is.”
    â€œThey’re interested in me because I’m familiar. I go to patients—
    to bodies—and put my hands there. Listen. They want medicine to be that. But it isn’t.” Without unfolding her arms, she pointed at his tablet. “It’s that.”
    He looked at his tablet.
    â€œIt’s that,” she said again. “Until you get to the surgeons. Or Claiborne. I’m nothing, Mullich. Stop trying to find me.”
    â€œYour cynicism is