The audacity you had to come back just a few hours after Robby sent you home was beyond comprehension, in his eyes.

Sure, the PittFest chaos called for all hands on deck, but he thought he’d made it pretty damn clear that you shouldn’t come back to the hospital unless you were ready to get clean and earn his trust back.

After all the life or death cases were taken care of and no one was at risk of sudden death, Robby took the chance to step outside. He needed to get away from everything for just a moment, at least.

When you went outside, he was facing the other way, his back towards you. You walked over to him, thanking him for allowing you to come back.

He shakes his head. “I didn’t let you come back. You came back on your own and I let you stay.” You stood right next to him now, but he still didn’t look at you. “I figured it was the one time throwing my career away was for a greater good.”

You tried explaining that you were just trying to treat your own withdrawal symptoms, but he doesn’t want to hear it. “You should’ve done that under the care and supervision of a physician. You could have come to me.” Now he’s looking you right in the eye.

“Instead, you could be arrested for stealing controlled substances from the hospital.”

“Robby, I could lose my medical license.” He knew that already. Of course he knew that. “You never heard of second chances?”

He scratches his beard, trying to keep himself composed. “Here’s your second chance: 30-day inpatient treatment program, followed by random urine tests, 50 to 60 a year, followed by mandatory NA meetings three to four times a week for the first three years. Of a five-year program. You need help.”

You started questioning him, telling him that you’re not the only one here who’s messed up. And of course, you think he’s blaming you for what happened to him.

“What happened to me? What happened to me? You are so full of shit! You let me down! You let everybody down, especially yourself.” After that, he started to walk away to go back inside.