“Sir,” she said, with her long flowing Navajo hair. “There’s a patient in the lobby”

He looked at her hand in the cast. “Yes, there are always patients in the lobby.”

She smiled, tried not to be annoyed. “The one, doctor, who is always keeping a record of everything you do. The one with the stutter.”

He looked at his watch. “What does he want?”

“He says you owe him a session. He says you dishonored him last time.”

The doctor was only half-proud, but he could get angry. “Did you read him our policy?”

She pushed her hair behind an ear. “I think he has it memorized.”

“Send him back, but tell him I have five minutes. Do you understand?”

She held up her hand with the slender fingers. “I think I got it.”

She went and spoke to the man in the quiet voice only receptionists know. The man listened, grabbed his three backpacks, followed her to the doctor.

“Hello, Paco. What can we do you for today?” The doctor pushed a wheeled stool over for the man.

“I don’t envy you your tasks,” said the patient. “I know you have to see all sorts. But I believe you’re not looking at my situation properly. Consulting your short-cut templates and charts and not really hearing me out.”

“That is a common complaint we hear, Paco, but I assure you . . .”

The man had pulled a tape recorder from his bag. The doctor had stopped because when he saw something black, it could have just as easily been a gun with this guy. He was only a little relieved to see the recording device.

“you can’t tape me, Paco. I’ve told you before.”

“Then how will anyone believe me when I tell them your poor care?”

“What is it that you think I’m missing, friend? I am a doctor. And you do keep coming to me. If you had the answers . . .?” He didn’t feel the need to finish his sentence.

“I don’t want to hear your boasting,” said the patient. “I just want you to tell me what’s wrong with my heart.”

The medic thought for a long while. He looked at the pictures on his own wall. He looked at the dress of the fellow in his laboratory. “Okay. I will finally tell you, Paco. You’ve pushed me to it. I think you’re ready.”

Paco sat down. He’d never hear the man speak this way. He thought he might finally get a diagnosis. He began to get nervous, a little happy all over. “Is it my coffee bean intake? Are you going to tell me I have to only drink water?”

“No, Paco. You can drink most any beverage you like.”

“Then what is it doc? Why does my chest always squeeze me? Why do my thoughts race and my blood boil at night? I need to know. Tell me quickly. I am ready to try any medicine. I won’t run from a side effect”

“You don’t trust people.”

The doctor actually looked something like kind and troubled as he said it. Like he were telling someone they had terminal cancer.

Paco looked confused for a second. Then he stared proper at the hippocratic being again. “No, no. I’ll trust you doc. Just tell me the findings. What’s wrong with me? What do I need to do?”

“I believe I just told your troubles, Paco. That is my diagnosis. Your heart is crushing you because you don’t trust people.”

The man looked up. The doctor prepared for a long drawn out argument. Or perhaps now the gun.

The patient looked around the room. Looked at his bags. It was silent.

Now the doctor waited. Even he didn’t know what he’d just done.

Paco felt his own arms up and down. Considered many things. Even got moist about the eyes. Then he stood up. He looked hard at the doctor. Was ready to say something. Then didn’t. He looked at the medical charts on the walls. Opened his mouth wide. Tried to talk, but couldn’t.

He looked down at his heart. He seemed like he might pet it, or pat it, like a fellow does his beloved mutt. Finally he stared at the floor, nodded his head for a bit, grabbed his three bags and shook the doctor’s hands. Bags swinging all the while.

He had no argument. No reply. His words were stuck in his chest. But a diagnosis had stuck. He felt like a matter had pinpointed. But not at all in the clinical way. It was what he was after. But it hurt more than ever. For the moment.

He walked out quietly, leaving the medic behind. Leaving the whole office behind. When he was gone, the Navajo princess rejoined the doctor.

“That was quicker than I thought it would be. What did you tell him?”

“I’m glad he’s gone. I don’t want to be self-seeking, especially in this profession. But he is the bane of my practice.”

“So what happened? He left differently today. Why?”

“I’m not sure,” said the physician. “I stepped a bit outside of my studies.”

“What do you mean?” She was adding some tape to the plaster around her hand.

“I spoke to his social, his spiritual, I suppose. I don’t know, whatever you want to call it. But it wasn’t from the medical books.”

“Was he recording you?”

“I told him he couldn't, though he tried.”

“What will he do?”

“I don’t know. I think I put a bullet in his chest. That was the medicine. At least for today.” He touched his own head. “Yep, that was the hat we pulled from today.”

“Well, it looks good on you.” She smiled. “Don’t beat yourself up.”

“I could lose my job.”

“So could any of us,” she said. “But you’re a person, remember. Not a collector of salaries. You greet ambulances, not run from the people chasing them.”

He smiled. She always made him feel better. Strong. Honor-worthy.

He turned the stethoscope around. Spoke too loudly into it, nearly breaking his own ear drums.

“You’re a person,” he said. He liked the sound of it.

He knew she was right.