Chapter 1

Garfield was right, you know. Mondays suck. They had been the same for years without fail. Always waking up at six o'clock in the morning, driving across town to work, labouring under the moans and groans of sick patients and demanding bosses at the local hospital… Tuesdays, as well. And Wednesdays. Thursdays and Fridays after that. Saturdays and Sundays were spent at home writing up notes and putting up with tedious phone calls from new employees who should never have made it into their professions in the first place.

Today was no different from any other Monday. During work hour, anyway. I had finished up the X-rays with Mr O'Connor and was indulging in a steaming cup of coffee in the staff lounge, one eye focused on the computer e-mail system that would dutifully interrupt at the least welcoming times. Dr Johnson - a friend for many years - was sat adjacent, having just finished up whatever duties he had to attend to, and also trudging his way through his hot drink.

"I had to do it, Steven." He said. "I couldn't stand his moaning anymore! How anyone can get so uppity about an ingrowing toenail is beyond me."

"Dan won't be happy with you just giving out drugs and sending people home. We're a hospital, not a pharmacy." I put my coffee down and scrolled through incoming e-mails using the single lounge computer. "I know what you mean though. That woman who runs the exotic store came in yesterday with a fracture. Fell down the stairs. Honestly, the way she was talking, it was like she thought it was my fault! It's not my fault she has no coordination."

Johnson scoffed. "They always need someone to blame."

"Yeah. Just ask my wife." We exchanged a forced chuckle.

An e-mail buzzed onto the screen. It was addressed to me: Dr Reynolds, Orthopedic ward.

"Great. My five minute break is obviously going to be cut short again." I groggily read through the e-mail, just taking enough of it in to find that I had appointments with five new patients. Another was waiting for me in the ward's reception. I chugged down my coffee, got up and adjusted my uniform.

Johnson shook his head pitiably. "I feel for you, man." Somehow, the statement made me feel no better, and I returned a roll of the eyes.

"The day I finally get promoted to a position just a little less tedious can't come too soon." I grumbled.

"That's what they all say. Don't worry though, something will turn up."

With that, I left the lounge, put on my hospital face (an aching fake smile for the patients), and made my way to the reception.

Despite my loathing for a majority of the patients I attended to, there were occasionally those who weren't a complete waste of air. The patient who would be waiting was a friend of my wife, who, according to the file I had read over earlier, had broken his humerus. As I opened the reception door, I spotted him using his one good arm to flip through a gardening magazine.

His name was Bill. He was an older man, sporting receding grey hair and thick spectacles over his aging, wrinkled eyes. He wore a grey suit and a red tie, always appearing so formal, but he now held his left arm in an ugly white bandage. I cringed at the long white-grey hairs that sprouted haphazardly from his ears and nose.

Bill was one of the few patients I could actually get along with. He may have been aged and clumsy, but his lasting position on the town council made him an important and admirable figure.

"Mr Ross," I greeted. "Good morning."

He rose steadily to his feet with a smile. "Good morning to you, too, Dr Reynolds." He shook my hand using his working arm. "I hope you have been keeping well."

"Well enough," I sighed and invited him toward my office. I proceeded to guide him from reception and through the long office corridor. "What on Earth did you do to your arm? I can't imagine this was a skateboarding accident."

"Oh, it was nothing. I just tripped and landed rather awkwardly." He said, following along behind me.

"I see."

We entered my office. It was small, perhaps a little too compact, with a window overlooking some dirty alleyways behind the hospital. Files of varying colours littered the floor and the overflowing bookshelf. My desk was lined with pictures of my parents and my wife. Mostly, they were of my wife.

"How is Brenda?" Bill enquired, spotting the picture in the red frame. It was from our wedding day, four years and three-hundred-and-forty-four days ago.

"She's coping. We don't see each other too much anymore, now that she has that new office job."

"Ah. Are you working different hours?"

"No. She just… isn't around as much."

Bill gave me a knowing glance. Then he looked away, a little embarrassed. "I'm sure she's just adjusting."

There was a brief awkward silence, and I decided that it was time to move on. I read through his files, questioned him about any feeling he still had in his broken arm, and asked if he had ever injured it before. The usual stuff.

There was nothing unusual about his injury, and I assured him that he would heal well, given that he didn't do anything to aggravate the injury further.

"Well, Bill," I said as the appointment came to a close. "Just take good care of it and it should be fine. That means no more skateboarding."

He huffed out a laugh and got up to shake my hand. "I'll resist the temptation, Steven. Don't worry about me."

I smiled, relieved at finally having a bearable patient stroll into my office today. "It was good to see you again, Bill. You can give me or Brenda a call if there are ever any issues."

Bill nodded and turned for the door. Then he hesitated and turned back to face me.

"Your wife, Steven," He started, his face now appearing more serious. "If she's having trouble adjusting to her new job. To your new house… May I make a recommendation?"

"Sure, Bill. What is it?" I perched myself on the edge of my desk.

"There's an organisation that started up some time ago that operates in the local area. It's a great place to meet people, discuss anything that needs to be discussed. I go there regularly, and I'm sure you'd both enjoy it. Both you and Brenda."

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? What's it called?"

"It's called The Sharing, Steven. You should give it a try sometime."

With that, he left my office. I needed another coffee.