Evelyn nodded.
“Perfect.”
Howard grumbled.
“I was a principal for thirty-five years. I know my own children.”
“I know.”
“But if I stop asking because somebody looks capable, eventually somebody gets hurt.”
That answer quieted him.
Howard looked at her more carefully.
“You've done this a while.”
“A minute or two.”
“How long?”
“Thirty-eight years here.”
Howard stared.
“Good Lord.”
Evelyn smiled.
“I’ll try not to take that personally.”
His expression softened.
“My wife was a nurse.”
“What department?”
“Pediatrics.”
“Forty-two years.”
“Then she was clearly smarter than you.”
Howard laughed.
For the first time that morning, Mark did too.
The tension in the room dropped.
That was part of Evelyn’s job as much as checking blood pressure.
Fear often needed somewhere to go.
Sometimes laughter gave it a place.
Evelyn noticed the watch on Howard’s left wrist during the medication check.
Gold case.
Brown leather strap.
Older model.
Not particularly flashy, but obviously cared for.
The leather was worn dark near the buckle.
Howard caught her looking.
“My wife gave me this.”
He said.
“Wedding gift.”
“How long ago?”
“Fifty-four years.”
Laura looked over.
“He has worn it almost every day since.”
Howard rubbed one thumb across the glass.
“Margaret said a man who constantly complained about people being late ought to carry his own clock.”
Evelyn smiled.
“Smart woman.”
“The smartest.”
Margaret Halstead had died eighteen months earlier.
Howard’s tone changed whenever her name appeared.
Not dramatically.
The way people speak when grief has aged enough to stop announcing itself but has not gone anywhere.
Evelyn understood.
Arthur’s wedding ring still lived in a small ceramic dish beside her bed.
At 10:20, a transport technician came to take Howard for preliminary testing.
Before he left, Evelyn checked the chart again.
The catheterization was scheduled for 12:30.
Nothing complicated.
Nothing unusual.
At 11:45, she returned.
Howard was restless.
Mark paced near the window.
Laura was texting someone.
The pre-operative nurse called to say they were ready.
Evelyn helped Howard sit upright.
“You're not keeping me in there all afternoon, are you?”
“No, Mr. Halstead.”
“We’ll have you back with your family as soon as it's safe.”
Howard looked at his children.
“You'll be right here?”
Mark nodded.
“We're not going anywhere.”
Laura leaned down and kissed his forehead.
“Just get through this safely.”
Howard pointed toward Mark.
“Your mother would tell you not to hover.”
“I inherited hovering from her.”
“That sounds right.”
Evelyn checked the paperwork.
“Okay.”
“Pre-op is ready.”
“They’ll take you through those doors.”
“And they bring me back here?”
“Yes.”
“Your family will be waiting.”
Howard nodded.
“Good.”
Then Mark noticed the watch.
“Dad.”
“You can't take that.”
Howard looked down.
“My watch?”
“Probably not into the procedure.”
Evelyn said:
“They'll inventory personal items in pre-op.”
“Or you can leave valuables with family.”
Howard frowned.
He hated removing it.
That was obvious.
Mark held out his hand.
“I’ll keep it.”
Howard looked toward him.
“Don't lose it.”
“I won't.”
“You lose everything.”
“I don't lose everything.”
“You lost your car keys at Thanksgiving.”
“They were in my coat.”