My Every Thought

Mitchell had just signed the last form when a man came up to him and introduced himself as Dr. Layton, the man in charge of the department that schedules patients. "Mr. Beckett," he said as he took the clipboard from Mitchell. "If you'll follow me, I'll take you to meet your therapist. I think you'll find our facility most beneficial to you in your recovery." Mitchell followed Dr. Layton down a long hallway, hoping that the man assigned to work with him wasn't going to be as pompous as the one in charge. When they approached the large open double doors, Dr. Layton stopped Mitchell with a raised hand. "Wait here a moment, please." Mitchell leaned against the wall, wondering what the hell the man's problem was. He was already beginning to dislike this place and he hadn't even started yet. It was a few seconds before voices moved closer to the door and he heard a female's voice say in an angry, hushed whisper, "I've worked a full caseload today and then some, Dr. Layton. I've had no break except for a few minutes for lunch and you know very well that I'm already overloaded with cases. You need to give this one to another therapist." Mitchell nearly swallowed his tongue. Surely it couldn't be! That voice sounded very familiar to him. His ears must be playing tricks on him. Maneuvering his crutches back under his arms, Mitchell made his way to the door and looked around the corner. His gasp of shock had two heads turning in his direction. "Reagan," he uttered quietly. It took a few seconds for Mitchell's face to register with her. "No way," she nearly exploded. The last person she expected to see in her facility was Mitchell Beckett. "Are we going to have a problem?" Dr. Layton asked Reagan, interrupting the silent standoff that was going on between them. Reagan wasn't sure how to answer the question. Mitchell Beckett was the last person she wanted or expected to come into contact with today. It'd been years since she last laid eyes on him and seeing him now, when she wasn't prepared, only made things harder. But her reputation as a professional was on the line and Dr. Layton was obviously standing by waiting for a response. Knowing there was nothing she could do, Reagan took a deep breath and answered quietly. "No." "Good," the obtuse doctor replied. Handing over the clipboard, he glanced to Mitchell. "You're in good hands, Mr. Beckett. I'll leave you two to it." Silence hung between them long after the doctor walked away. Neither was sure what, if anything, to do or say. Coming to her senses, Reagan put the chart under her arm and motioned to Mitchell. "Follow me, please." In shock, Mitchell complied, sitting on the bench she indicated when they got in the room. He sat quietly, trying to gather his thoughts as she read over his information. As she flipped through sheet after sheet, he went through a litany of things he should say, but for some reason couldn't come up with a single intelligent opening. He finally started to make some inane comment about the weather when Reagan put his chart aside. "So you were shot," she said bluntly. Mitchell thought he heard her say not surprised under her breath but decided to let it go. "I was." "I need to take a look at your leg before we get started. I need to have an understanding of where you are in the healing process to compare things as we proceed in your treatment. I want to be on the lookout for additional swelling or redness. It's always our intent to get you back on your feet, not to cause more injury along the way." "Reagan," Mitchell tried to interject. "I'm glad you wore shorts today," she went on, cutting off whatever Mitchell was about to say. "From now on, that's exactly what I need you to wear for your therapy sessions." "Reagan, please," Mitchell broke in. "We need to tal..." "We need to keep this professional," Reagan interrupted, glaring at him. "There's nothing we have to say to each other. I'm your physical therapist and you're my patient. End of story. Now," she said, unwrapping the bandage on his leg. "Let's see what's going on."