“Of course not,” Amy said, lifting her chin defiantly. “I'm a doctor.”
“Yeah, but that was an 'I’m going to puke' face if I ever saw one.”
Amy took a deep breath and assumed her professional look. Her professional look consisted of knitted eyebrows, a squinted right eye and pursed lips. If she wanted to be super professional she tapped her fingertip on her chin. She had perfected this look in front of her mirror in the bathroom at home. She thought it made her look smart, knowledgeable, caring and in control all at the same time.
“You're not pooping, are you?” Jordan asked.
Amy laughed.
“Because that face you’re making looks like you might have IBS or something.”
Amy decided she was going to have to cultivate another professional look, perhaps one without the eye squint. “Who's the doctor here, you or me?” Amy joked.
“You are,” Jordan answered. “Unless…” she said with widening eyes, “you stole a lab coat and scrubs and are impersonating a doctor.”
“A doctor with I.B.S.,” Amy corrected. She pointed to Jordan's overly-bandaged hand, saying, “So, that's some first-aid job. If I didn't know better I'd say that's an oven mitt under all that gauze. An oven mitt covered in gauze and attached securely by duct tape.”
“It is an oven mitt attached securely by duct tape. This is what happens when you let a handyman-slash-inventor-slash-horror movie fanatic-slash best friend play nurse.”
Amy gently turned Jordan's hand over. “Well, it looks like the oven mitt did its job. Though I think it was due more to the tourniquet quality of the duct tape.”
“Don't tell Edison that. That's my friend who did this first-aid job. She's already a huge fan of the stuff. Edison always says if you ever have to make a run for it, be sure to pack a hundred dollars in quarters, duct tape and Vaseline.”
Amy agreed on the first two counts, but wasn’t sure if she wanted to know about the Vaseline. “So, tell me what happened.” She held Jordan's hand in an upright position and gently prodded at the rest of her arm, checking for contusions or broken bones.
“I fell out of a window. I was rescuing Mr. Pip. He was hanging from a tree branch.”
“Who is Mr. Pip?”
“He’s the old man who lives next door.”
Amy's eyes widened. Jordan laughed. “I’m kidding. He's my cat.”
Amy almost laughed out loud. If she wasn't careful this woman was going to make her stoic doctor personae crumble. “Okay, you fell, but how did the cut happen?”
“There was a broken piece of shower door in the dumpster.”
“You fell into a dumpster?”
Jordan nodded. “Dumpster diving. Literally.”
“So, what happened to Mr. Pip?”
“He’s fine, although he didn’t say thank you.”
“Cats,” Amy said, shaking her head in mock disgust.
“When I came to he was sitting on my chest licking his butt.”
Amy chuckled. “Why don't you get out of that bloody shirt.” She peeled off her latex gloves and tossed them into a white can sitting on the floor. “And throw it in there.”
Jordan looked at the symbol on top of the trash can. “Because I'm a biohazard?”
“Pretty much. I'll find you another shirt to wear and be right back.” She swished aside the curtain, drawing it closed behind her, and went in search of the supplies she needed.