When Devon returned to the Oasis, he ordered the truck’s dog brain into a meandering route at a low speed. As he rolled through the neighborhood, he exchanged waves with several residents he knew and a few he didn’t. He passed a few pieces of scrip to “Bad Egg” Larry, who insisted on smearing his filthy sleeve across the windshield by way of thank you, and when he saw Berta Reed coughing into her sleeve as she prowled for her next trick, he stopped to give her some antibiotics (with a little kick to them) on the promise she would stop through the Clinic next week.
Arriving at the aforementioned location, he parked under the one working streetlight on the block, the truck’s unofficial parking space. He left the keyfob at the desk when he entered as he looked for Dr. Harris. As luck would have it, the clinic was quiet that night and Devon found Max Harris was seated in his office, dictating to a machine at least 15 years old.
Without missing a beat, he pointed to a chair and pushed a file that way, still talking about the abscess he removed from an elderly troll’s back. Devon opened the file and scanned the contents, seeing immediately what his father thought was so interesting, and check a few more pages of the notes the receiving intern had written. When he closed the file he smiled, his father finished up his notes as he returned the grin, then raised an eyebrow as he turned off the recording.
“It’s not a goblinization variant, she never received proper vaccinations as a child. James has never heard of it before, and we will need a culture to be sure, but Agnes is suffering from shingles.” The father and son laughed, like the colleagues they had grown to be the last few years and they moved on to talking about other cases and the minutiae of running the clinic.
Devon was careful to avoid making any statements about things that HE would do for various patients, and finally his father paused, looking at the young man then giving an exaggerated “ooooh!”
“What?” said Devon, taken aback.
“You’re finally going to tell me about this ‘shadowrunning’ you have been doing for months now, aren’t you? Two-toes must have gotten you a big job.”
Devon gaped for a full five seconds, then with another laugh he said, “I am supposed to be the wizard in this family, so why is it that you are the one who reads minds?”
“No telepathy involved son, had a young man come in about six weeks ago, looking for ‘that skinny little slitch, Flatline.’ He was carrying his real arm with his cybered one. After we kept him from losing any more blood and treated the shock, we chatted a bit before the Doc Wagon guys showed up to take him to SGH.” Max shrugged and Devon knew the rest of the story. After King Chrome had spilled the beans on him, his father began quietly asking questions. Doctor Harris knew Two-Toes, and Tom and Theresa at the Curio Corner, so he could easily get the whole story.
At least the story to this point…
“Well, you’re right, my fixer got me a really good job, obviously I can’t tell you anything, but I won’t be around for a while…Don’t worry, I made arrangements to get some help here…but when I come back, I may have the scratch to get legit and go to school…”
“Or you could end up in prison, hurt, or dead.” Maxwell finished for him, cutting him off, “Isn’t that right?” The chummy feeling was gone, his father had wonderful bedside manner, but he could cut straight through the drek when he needed to and get his patients up to speed.
“I could, but I want to do it. It feels right.” Devon said.
“That is WWD talking.” his father said, without any real heat. The younger Harris shrugged and smiled, WWD stood for Walks With Deer, his mother’s Pinkskin Salish name. Max Harris used it to designate those strange parts of their lives that are a result of her influence.
“I still need you tonight, and this replacement better not be a dud, it looks like we will need them for a while. Go get ‘em, FLATLINE.”
------------------------
Those last four words echo in his mind the next day as he walks up to the building with a duffel of gear over his shoulder.
As he entered, he heard himself referred to across the building.
"...now I'm hoping the doctor will show up. It might therefore fall on your shoulders Krestov."
He hustles up to the group, dropping his bag on the way, "I'm here, I can do it. What am I doing?"
