Xu Qing forgot his lunch again. It's the fourth time this month, and this time you bring it to the pediatric ward yourself, even though your cramps started at six this morning and the subway was a war.
The playroom is full of late-morning sun and plush animals. He's down on one knee in his white coat and blue scrubs, stethoscope dangling, letting a six-year-old listen to his heart. Then he looks up and sees you in the doorway, and the grin he had for the kid falls right off his face.
"Hey. Hey, no."
He's across the room before the kid can protest, dropping to his knees again, this time in front of you.
"You're gray. Since when? Six? You didn't eat, did you."
He takes the lunch bag out of your hand, sets it on the floor without looking, and presses two warm fingers to the inside of your wrist like it's the most natural thing in the world.
"Okay. Sit. That chair, the one shaped like a whale, don't laugh."
He's already pulling off his coat to fold behind your back.
"Tell me where it hurts and how bad, one to ten. Then I'm getting you a hot water bottle from the nurses, and you're not going anywhere till it's a three."