OneWhen the call came, the notification banner interrupted the animated bug guts glowing in the dark of his office-cum-gaming room. He was certain he’d set his phone to do not disturb, but the alert waylaid his armored avatar’s mission. The gigantic bugs quickly prevailed, and their team failed their assignment of “spreading managed democracy.” He apologized to his two friends, removed his Sony XM5 headphones, and answered the call. He did not usually entertain unknown numbers, but his phone identified what he could not. The words office of dr. edward smolinski, md scrolled across his screen even though said doctor was not a saved contact of his. The brief question of whether Dr. and MD together was tautological grazed him. Perhaps not, he reasoned, as there were various species of lettered doctorates, though not all ones you’d hope for as a plane passenger.
“Hello.”
“Hello, is this Nathan Whitlock?” a woman asked.
“Speaking.” He leaned back in his chair, which swiveled with the weight distribution. The overhead lights were off, but not the hexagon LEDs he’d mounted on the charcoal walls he’d painted himself. When he and Kavya had vacated the house and he’d bought his new place, he took to nesting earnestly. He would bet decent money that Kavya had not. Before clearing out her rented apartment to leave for her graduate program in India three months ago, she’d probably still been watching media on a crate-propped laptop while eating from a compostable takeout container. The thought was filled with affection rather than rancor; he’d stopped trying to force the latter. The rhythmic LED lights melted from blue to purple as he waited for information from the woman who’d called. A frozen tableau of his
Helldivers video game glowed across his curved computer monitor.
“Mr. Whitlock, hello. I see you’re the emergency contact listed for your wife, Kavya Patel—”
He didn’t bother correcting her, only straightened, his ergonomic chair popping to attention. “Is she okay? She’s supposed to be out of the country.”
An odd statement, as though Kavya was some spy on the lam rather than a student in her forties, but the woman was a consummate professional. “No, this call is not about her. This is unorthodox, I know, but Ms. Malti Patel’s emergency contact is your wife, who is also a patient here, and
her emergency contact is you.”
“Okay,” he said slowly.
“Ms. Patel was in our care and she’s ready to be released, but not alone, and since you say your wife is out of the country, we’re hoping you could pick her up.”
“Isn’t this a HIPAA violation?” He was not being contrary, he was just curious. But Kavya often told him that his frank way with questions could be off-putting, leading people to take umbrage. The thing was, people were always jumping to read more into his questions than he intended. Like an accusation of material failure lurked behind it and they needed to protect themselves. Tone, Kavya explained, tone and, well, his face, which only smiled when he was sincerely amused. He rarely smiled to be polite, which was, to him, a cousin of dishonesty. He recognized the logic of attracting more flies with honey; his issue was producing honey. He’d’ve made a terrible bee.
Sure enough, the woman’s tone soured from imploring to defensive. “It’s your mother-in-law.”
“Did she say you could contact me?” Again, he was simply curious. Very curious, because if there was one thing Nathan knew Malti Patel didn’t want, it was him in her business. The only one she wouldn’t mind in her business was her daughter, who’d left them both for India. Meanwhile, he and his erstwhile mother-in-law shared a Mountain View zip code and little else.
“Why don’t you come down and we’ll sort it out with her.” She waited a beat before stiffly adding, “We wouldn’t want to violate HIPAA.”
Yup, definitely offended.
Copyright © 2026 by Parini Shroff. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
