Who the hell are you?” Tyler demanded, stepping back, his chest still heaving.
The man was in his mid-fifties, Asian, wearing crisp khakis and a navy polo shirt. He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and took a casual sip of his soda.
Dr. James Chen,” he said. “Marcus’s orthopedic surgeon. Among other things.”
The crowd went completely silent. You could hear the burgers sizzling on the grill, a dog barking three yards over, and the country music still playing tinny and small from a Bluetooth speaker.
I am also his physical therapist, his pain management specialist, and I consult with his neurologist, Dr. Sarah Patel, at Northwestern Memorial,” Dr. Chen continued, his voice smooth and level. “I have been treating Marcus since approximately forty-seven hours after his accident, twenty-six months ago.”
My Aunt Linda laughed. It came out nervous, shrill. “Well, Doctor, you must be very proud. Your patient can apparently walk just fine when nobody’s looking.”
Dr. Chen smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. It was a terrifying, shark-like smile.
Actually,” he said, pulling out his iPhone. “I have something everyone should see.”
He held it up. The screen was bright, cutting through the afternoon glare. An X-ray filled the display.
Read more:
