Free Born To Die by Lisa Jackson

“I’ve worked with Dr. Belding. She’s good.”
    Trace nodded curtly. “Thanks.” To his son, he said, “Let’s go, bud.”
    Heather appeared with the request forms for the lab just as Trace was helping Eli from the examination table. “Do you need anything else?” she asked Kacey.
    â€œI think we’re okay. Thanks.”
    As Heather returned to her desk, Kacey handed Trace the request forms, then, to make the boy feel more at ease, said to Eli, “Look, I know a shortcut, so I’ll walk you over. Is that okay?” She smiled at Eli. “Just in case your dad gets lost.”
    â€œHe won’t! He was an Army Ranger.”
    Trace snorted and held the door open. “That was a few years back.”
    â€œBut you were!” Eli insisted.
    â€œBack in the Dark Ages,” he admitted as they headed through a series of short hallways and out a back door, where the wind knifed through her lab coat and snow was collecting in the planters.
    â€œRight here,” she said, holding her coat closed with one hand while hurrying down the short walkway. Before she could reach the door, Trace pulled it open and waited for her and his son to walk inside.
    The heat was blasting, of course, Christmas music drifting down the hallways.
    â€œOkay, from here on in, you’re on your own,” she said as she dropped them off with one of the lab technicians. “I’ll see you in about an hour, after we get the X-rays back.”
    â€œGot it,” he said, and when his eyes met hers, she saw something dark and undefinable in his gaze.
    Just your imagination.
    Maybe Trace was just worried about his boy, but there was something more to the guy’s reaction, an undercurrent of distrust that seemed out of line with the situation, almost as if he didn’t trust her. Or maybe it was doctors or the medical profession in general. Not that she had time to worry about his hang-ups, whatever they were.
    She and Randy, her nurse, spent nearly an hour with other patients: Cathy Singer was dealing with adult acne; two kids came in with flu symptoms; Kevin Thomas’s mother was certain he had head lice as there had been a case at school; and even Helen Ingles, having apparently found a replacement babysitter for her nephew, returned to have her own health and diabetes monitored.
    An hour after being sent to the lab, the O’Hallerans were back in exam room three with the X-rays, which proved there was a small fracture in Eli’s left ulna. “Looks like we’re going to need a cast,” she told father and son as she showed them both the tiny hairline fracture in the bone. “So you can have your pick of colors. Pink or blue.”
    â€œPink?” Eli looked stricken. His nose wrinkled in disgust. “No way!”
    â€œBlue it is,” she said with a grin as Randy found the appropriate colored kit from a supply closet and helped her apply the cast. For his part, Eli was a trooper, didn’t flinch too much, tried to be as stoic as his father.
    Once the cast was in place, and Randy was cleaning up the extra packaging, Kacey gave them instructions. “The main thing is that you don’t reinjure it. So you”—she eyed the boy—“have to take it easy for a while. No more climbing on the jungle gym, or being pushed by Cory Whoever.” She leaned down so that she was eyeball-to-eyeball with him. “Can you do that?”
    Eli nodded, then looked down at his cast. “Maybe you tell him that? He’s a butthead.”
    Trace was long-suffering. “I thought that was our secret. Remember?”
    â€œEverybody knows,” Eli said.
    â€œI guess the secret’s out,” Kacey said with a grin, then told Eli, “But I wouldn’t worry about Cory . . . uh . . .”
    â€œDeter,” Trace supplied.
    â€œRight. I think your dad will handle any trouble you have from him. I heard that he was an Army