Chapter 28 — Back
Sheldon kept his job. Ethan returned to the clinic. And by noon, Mary was already on a flight back to Texas.
Life seemed to have taken a reluctant detour, then slowly, stubbornly slid back onto its tracks.
The moment Ethan pushed open the clinic door, a familiar wave of disinfectant hit him — mixed with a faint trace of… perfume?
"Mary?"
he called cautiously.
The surgical room light was on.
Mary Mason stood there in a pale blue medical coat, hair pinned neatly back, completely absorbed in stitching something with unsettlingly realistic texture.
Without looking up, she greeted him coolly. "Morning, Doctor. You finally decided to show up."
"Morning…" Ethan gave an awkward smile. "Practicing this early?"
His gaze fell on the strip of "skin" she was suturing with exquisite precision, and he frowned. "What is that?"
"A training prosthetic," Mary replied.
"What happened to the turkey?"
Mary didn't answer. She simply kept working.
The silver needle glinted under the surgical light. Each pass made a faint shh sound as it pierced the surface.
Her movements were precise, controlled — like she was restoring artwork, not practicing stitches.
The final stitch went in.
Snip. The sterile scissors cut the thread. She tied a neat knot.
Then she removed her gloves and gently wiped the surface with disinfectant gauze. The incision was nearly invisible now, edges aligned with textbook perfection.
As she examined her work, she finally answered:
"Turkey doesn't preserve well. It contaminates easily, and it's useless for fine multilayer sutures.
"A prosthetic is better. Clean. Stable. Reusable."
She studied it a moment longer, satisfied, set it aside, then lifted her eyes to him.
The look made Ethan's scalp prickle. He instinctively glanced away — then felt absurd. I'm the boss. Why am I nervous?
"Good," she said, removing her mask. "Now we can talk about your three-week disappearance."
Ethan's heart skipped.
He carefully pulled breakfast and coffee from a paper bag, trying for casual. "I brought you a tuna sandwich and a latte. Want some first?"
"Thank you." She took them, placed them on the counter without looking. "We'll continue."
"I did come by a few times," Ethan said, bracing himself. "You just weren't here."
"Twice," she corrected, wiping down the table and placing the prosthetic back into its case.
"You don't need to explain. But while you were gone, I had to call in sick three times, did seven sutures, took four calls from patients complaining you skipped appointments — and wrote two insurance reports in your voice."
Ethan quickly put on a placating smile. "You've worked hard, seriously. I'll make sure you get a bonus this month."
That wasn't just lip service. For medical students, time off was far stricter than in most majors. Medicine ran on responsibility and continuity — too many absences could literally delay graduation.
He moved to the front desk and pulled out the ledger.
At first he only meant to flip through it and change the subject.
But the more he read, the deeper his frown grew.
"Surgical service fee… surgical service fee… surgical service fee…"
He looked up at Mary, a trace of helplessness in his voice. "Mary, I remember saying that if we're doing these kinds of minor surgical procedures, you need to notify me first."
Mary calmly cleaned her instruments. "I did."
"You're sure?" Ethan had zero memory of this.
"Of course." She paused and glanced back at him. "I texted you. Every time."
"Texted…?"
Ethan froze for two seconds, then hurriedly pulled out his phone.
The screen lit up. His expression died on the spot.
A neat stack of unread messages stared back at him.
Mary Mason: Doctor, a patient with a subcutaneous mass wants excision. When will you be back?
Mary Mason: …Never mind, I'll handle it.
—
Mary Mason: Another patient, superficial cyst. Needs treatment.
—
Mary Mason: Someone booked a cosmetic procedure — subdermal implant and lateral canthus repair. If you don't object, I'll do it.
Mary Mason: Done.
—
Ethan read them one by one. His face went from confused… to stiff… to the silent expression of a man who knew he had no defense.
He instinctively wanted to say, You could've called, but the sentence didn't even make it out of his throat before survival instinct strangled it.
A man who hadn't checked his phone in three weeks did not get to complain about communication methods.
So he put the phone down and continued flipping through the accounts as if nothing had happened.
"Wait…" He looked up, disbelief creeping into his voice. "We actually made a profit this month?"
Not counting John Kramer's $100,000 payment — just regular patients — the clinic had turned a profit?
Mary leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "Yeah. Thanks to a few of those 'procedures you didn't want to approve,' plus normal patients."
Ethan closed the ledger slowly, emotions complicated.
"Well… looks like while I was gone, you didn't just keep the clinic running — you revived it from the dead."
"Not that dramatic," Mary said with a small shrug. "But I did realize something. The clinic not making money might not have been a staffing issue." She gave him a meaningful look. "It might've been that we had one extra you."
Ethan choked on air. "Hearing it like that, I suddenly feel like the clinic mascot."
"Even mascots improve morale," Mary replied lightly.
He had no comeback.
She added, "Honestly, maybe you should go get a job somewhere."
Ethan blinked. "I have a job."
"Something else," she said. "Taxi driver. Freelance consultant. Writer. Pick one. Something flexible. No clock-in."
Ethan's smile froze.
I wish, he thought bitterly. But I'm literally surviving on Holy Light, Shadow's still unresolved, and I need clinic patients to strengthen my faith.
He consoled himself: having a genius subordinate who roasted the boss was… technically a blessing. At least the clinic wouldn't collapse.
"You're right, Mary," he said, forcing calm. "This place survives because of you."
Letting your subordinate run herself ragged while you played absentee boss really didn't look good.
The last scraps of Ethan's professional conscience finally clawed their way back.
On his first day truly back, Ethan took on almost everything.
Suturing. Removing stitches. Dressing changes. Counseling. Medical records.
He worked from morning to night until his back ached and his vision swam.
That evening, he leaned back in his chair, watching the sunset outside the window. His body felt drained — hollowed out — but his heart felt strangely steady.
That familiar warmth… had quietly returned.
He closed his eyes and exhaled.
"Heal."
The breath of Holy Light stirred at his fingertips again.
A faint smile curved his lips.
"Figures."
"Faith isn't something you think into existence."
"It's something you do."