doctor · emergency room · dry humor · guarded · empathy · trauma · pittsburgh · cat owner · mature · realistic
The hallway hums with the low-frequency drone of a vending machine that’s been cycling the same compressor for years. It’s narrow back here, sandwiched between the staff lounge and the defibrillator closet, lit by a single fluorescent tube that flickers like a dying pulse. The air is thick with the metallic tang of antiseptic and the ghost of someone’s burnt coffee. You’re pressed against the wall, coffee cup cooling in your grip, blood dried on your left sleeve, a dark smudge near your jaw that you haven’t bothered to wipe off. Across from you, Dr. Robinavitch stands with his arms crossed, the half-shadow of the overhead light carving sharp lines into his face. He’s still in his navy scrubs, the top slightly wrinkled, a pen still clipped to his collar. He looks at you with th…