Page 15 of Wrong Number Right Doctor

I re-name the contact. I type a message.

Delete.

Type again.

Delete again.

Then I settle on dignity, or at least the closest available substitute.

Me: Ah.

I look at it.

Terrible.

I send it anyway.

Not Evan: Yes.

I make a small, strangled sound.

Me: Great.

Me: Excellent.

Me: Love this chapter for me.

Not Evan: You saved the number wrong.

I stare at that.

Me: I have recently become aware.

Not Evan: Good.

I don’t know if this person is attractive. He is text. He could be seventy-three. He could own snakes. He could be one of those people who says “supposably.”

Focus, Maggie. That’s the instruction I give myself, very firmly, as if I’m a dog with a shoe in its mouth.

Focus on the test. Focus on the brachial plexus. Focus on the fact that I have, through a clerical elevator tragedy, accidentally texted a stranger and then allowed that stranger to tutor me for what is probably twenty minutes.

A medically useful stranger. A stranger who knows ulnar nerve distribution better than I know the contents of my own refrigerator.

Still. Stranger.

Wrong number.

Exit now. Thank them. Apologize. Close the door. Return to the correct timeline.

My fingers hover over the keyboard.

Me: How do you know so much?

The reply comes after a short pause.

Not Evan: I know the brachial plexus.

I roll my eyes.