It wasn’t long before I heard the quick, hesitant knock at the door. I rushed over, opening it to see Dr. Whitman standing there, still looking like he was half asleep, his shirt buttoned wrong and hair a mess. He had a bag slung over one shoulder and a look of pure confusion on his face. I almost laughed at the sight—he looked as disoriented as I felt.
“Doctor,” I whispered, stepping aside to let him in. He blinked a few times, probably trying to process everything, or maybe still trying to wake up. My call to him had been frantic, jumbled mess of words. I wasn’t even sure he’d understood half of what I said, but he’d come anyway.
“Alright,” he muttered, his voice a little gruff, maybe from sleep or just the sheer confusion of being dragged out of bed in the middle of the night for a ‘h
