Chapter 28 – Back to Reality
Sheldon kept his job, Ethan returned to the clinic, and by noon Mary Cooper was on a Southwest flight back to Texas.
Life had only reluctantly shifted course before sliding, slow as molasses, back onto its familiar trajectory.
The moment Ethan pushed open the clinic door, the familiar sharp tang of medical-grade disinfectant hit him—laced with something unexpectedly floral... perfume?
"Mary?"
He called out tentatively.
The procedure room light was illuminated.
Mary Mason, wearing a crisp pale-blue surgical gown, dark hair twisted up in a professional bun, was intently suturing something whose realistic appearance was genuinely unsettling.
Without glancing up she greeted him with cool detachment: "Morning, Doctor. So you finally decided to show up for work."
"Morning," Ethan answered sheepishly. "Practicing sutures this early?"
His gaze fell on the expertly stitched synthetic "skin" and he frowned. "What exactly is that thing?"
"A surgical training prosthetic," Mary replied matter-of-factly.
"Why not practice on a Butterball turkey anymore?"
Mary didn't immediately answer, eyes laser-focused on the artificial tissue.
The curved surgical needle flashed coldly under the overhead light, each precise penetration creating a soft whisper of resistance.
Her movements were mechanical perfection, emotionally detached—more like restoring a Renaissance painting than practicing basic suture technique.
The final interrupted stitch.
With a definitive snip she cut the absorbable thread and buried the knot beneath the surface.
She peeled off her nitrile gloves and cleaned the closed incision with sterile gauze; the wound edges aligned almost perfectly, neat as any medical textbook photograph.
Still critically appraising her handiwork, she finally addressed his earlier question: "Turkey tissue spoils too rapidly, contaminates easily with bacteria, and doesn't hold up well for practicing fine layered closures."
"Synthetic prosthetics are sterile, dimensionally stable, infinitely reusable."
After one more evaluative moment she nodded with satisfaction, set the training model aside, and slowly lifted her gaze to Ethan.
That look made him distinctly uncomfortable; he glanced away reflexively, then caught himself—why the hell should the clinic owner feel guilty?
"Alright," she said calmly, removing her surgical mask. "Now we can properly discuss your three-week vanishing act."
Ethan's stomach dropped.
He carefully extracted breakfast items and coffee from the Starbucks bag, aiming for casual nonchalance: "Brought you a turkey avocado sandwich and a grande latte—hungry?"
"Thanks." She accepted them without looking and set them deliberately aside. "Let's continue our conversation."
"I did stop by a couple times," he offered weakly. "You just weren't here those days."
"Twice, total?" She efficiently wiped down the procedure table and slid the prosthetic into its sterile storage case.
"No explanation necessary. While you were AWOL I had to take three personal days off, perform seven unscheduled procedures, field four separate patient complaints about your missed appointments, and complete two insurance reimbursement reports using your NPI number."
Ethan laughed apologetically: "You've definitely earned a substantial bonus this month, I promise!"
He moved to the reception desk and pulled out the accounting ledger.
He'd intended to skim it casually for distraction; the longer he studied it, the deeper his frown became.
"Surgical fee... surgical fee... another surgical fee..."
He lifted his gaze with concern. "Mary, I specifically said elective procedures require my prior authorization."
She continued methodically organizing surgical instruments. "I did notify you every single time."
"You did?" He had absolutely zero memory of any such notifications.
"Every procedure—via text message," she answered, glancing back pointedly.
"Text messages?"
Ethan froze for two full seconds, then frantically yanked out his iPhone.
The screen illuminated; his expression went rigidly mortified.
Unread messages stretched in damning chronological order:
[Mary Mason]: Dr. Rayne, patient requesting subcutaneous lipoma removal. When will you be back at the clinic?
[Mary Mason]: ...Never mind, I'll handle it myself.
[Mary Mason]: Another sebaceous cyst presenting—needs immediate attention.
[Mary Mason]: Cosmetic consultation for cheek implants and lateral canthoplasty. If you don't object within 2 hours, I'm proceeding.
[Mary Mason]: Procedure completed successfully.
He scrolled to the very end, his expression shifting from confused to horrified, finally settling into the resigned silence of someone who knows they absolutely deserve this.
He almost said out loud, "You could've just called me," but survival instinct strangled those words before they could escape.
A man who hasn't checked his phone in three solid weeks has zero grounds to complain about insufficient phone calls.
He set the iPhone down carefully and flipped through ledger pages.
"Wait..." He looked up with genuine disbelief. "We're actually profitable this month?"
Even without John Kramer's hundred-thousand-dollar payment, the clinic had turned a legitimate profit from regular patient volume.
Mary leaned casually against the reception counter, arms folded: "Thanks entirely to those 'unauthorized' surgical procedures plus consistent daily patient appointments."
Ethan closed the ledger with a soft, deeply conflicted sigh.
"Alright. While I was completely absent you didn't just keep the lights on—you legitimately revived this practice."
"Hardly a resurrection," she shrugged dismissively. "But I did observe something interesting: the clinic doesn't hemorrhage money from insufficient staffing,"—her gaze pinned him directly—"it hemorrhages money from having one specific superfluous employee."
Ethan coughed out an embarrassed laugh. "Suddenly I feel like the clinic's decorative mascot."
"A mascot would at least boost team morale," she countered smoothly.
He had absolutely no comeback.
She added thoughtfully, "Maybe you should seriously consider getting a supplementary day job."
"A day job?" he echoed incredulously.
"Uber driver, freelance medical consultant, aspiring novelist—anything with flexible scheduling and no mandatory time clock."
Ethan stood completely speechless, smile frozen awkwardly in place.
He thought silently: I'd genuinely love to, but I literally subsist on Holy Light energy now, the Shadow corruption problem remains unresolved, and I desperately need patient interactions to strengthen my faith.
He consoled himself philosophically: A genius employee who mercilessly roasts her boss is actually a blessing—she's keeping this entire operation alive.
"You're absolutely right, Mary." He produced his most diplomatic smile. "This clinic survives exclusively because of you."
Abandoning his brilliant protégé to work herself ragged while he played absentee owner was genuinely indefensible.
A flicker of actual professional responsibility finally surfaced—on his first day back, Ethan deliberately claimed nearly every single task: wound closures, suture removals, dressing changes, patient counseling, medical records documentation... working continuously from dawn until his lower back ached and vision blurred from exhaustion.
Evening found him slumped in the reception chair, golden sunset light streaming through the blinds, body completely drained yet strangely spiritually at peace.
That familiar warmth seemed to have quietly returned.
He closed his eyes and exhaled softly with relief.
"Renew."
Holy Light shimmered gently again across his fingertips.
"Exactly as I suspected," he murmured, a faint satisfied smile curving his lips.
"Faith isn't intellectualized into existence—it's practiced into being."
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