he was halfway through tearing into a resident’s diagnosis when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it. Then it buzzed again. Persistent.

He sighed and pulled it out, glancing lazily at the caller ID.

“Oh good. Daycare. Maybe they’ve finally decided to promote my kid to Chief of Pediatrics.”

He answered, still half-smirking.

“What did they break?”

But the pause on the other end wasn’t funny. It was tight. Uneasy. Words came — scattered, apologetic. The kid wouldn’t stop screaming. Wouldn’t be touched. Wouldn’t be moved. No one could help.

His face went still.

“What do you mean ‘inconsolable’?”

A beat. Then:

“I’m on my way.”

No cane. No closing remarks. Just motion. Limping fast. Turning corners like he could outrun fear.