“Not uncommon, Sean Patrick,” Jeff had told him. “Anyone who thinks attorneys work only nine to five is fooling themselves.”
He was getting off the elevator when his phone started to sing. “Howdy,” he answered, although he didn’t feel that jovial.
“Sean Patrick, what can I do for you?” asked Dr. Berman. He had a voice with no discernable accent to it, a voice that had been many places and traveled widely and betrayed nothing about where he’d come from; unlike Sean Patrick, who had never managed to lose his own Texas drawl.
“The meds aren’t working, Doc,” said Sean Patrick. “I feel like I’m drowning.” He paused, leaning on the wall of the hallway, glad so few people were about this time of the night.
“Are you getting enough blood?”
Sean Patrick paused, sucking his teeth.
“I’ll take that as a no. You do remember how much I stressed the importance of getting enough blood, right?”
“Yes, I remember,” replied Sean Patrick. “I try, but it’s just not that easy here.”
“So you say, but I think you could if you really tried. You’re keeping up with the recommended dosage?”
“Yes, that I’m doing, every day. Usually it works. The last few days, not so much,” replied Sean Patrick.
“Have you considered what I suggested? Therapy?”
Sean Patrick’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t suppose you could recommend any good therapists in the Las Vegas area?”
“Vegas? What about Burbank?”
“It’s been a very busy year, Doc.”
“Apparently. All right, I’ll pull the list for the entire Southwest and email you. You can make your choice. As I recall, you have no problem at all with hopping a chartered plane to anywhere.”
Sean Patrick felt himself blush. Down the hall the office door opened and Liz popped her head out, gestured to him and pointed to her watch. He held up a finger toward her, holding her off as he indicated he was on the phone. Liz rolled her eyes but disappeared back into the office.
“That’ll be fine, Doc. Thanks so much.”
“Take care of yourself, Sean Patrick. And I mean it. Feed. Seriously.”