Short Stories

180 Hours

by Andrew Tuttle
07/15/21
For Sale
Author requests article critique

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Dr. John Kitzer leans over a patient and works fastidiously. Two other nurses surround him. An alarm suddenly blares.

“Oh crap. Shock him!” John yells.

He steps aside and raises his hands. A nurses moves in with paddles and places them on the patient's heart. A shock sound is heard and the patient’s body convulses. The alarm continues.

“Again!”

The nurse shocks the patient again. The alarm continues.

“Again!”

A flat line on the monitor displays.

“I'm calling it,” he says.

John walks away from the table. He rips his mask off and sheds his gown placing both in a receptacle by the OR doors. John is a handsome man with graying brown hair. He's in his late 40s.

He exists the OR and sees a man and woman sitting anxiously. They see him and get up hesitantly.

“Doctor, what's happening?” the man asks. “How did the surgery go?”

John says nothing. He manages a smile. Understanding, the woman begins sobbing.

“I am truly sorry,” John says. “He put up a valiant fight. I know it's been a long road for all of you.”

John glances at his watch. He tries to hide his impatience.

“We just want to thank you doctor for all you've done,” the man says.

“I am sorry I could not do more,” John says. “He was a special man.”

          The crying woman tries to utter a thank you but fails. She holds out her hand and John grabs it with both hands, a rare sign of compassion.

“I'm sorry. If you'll excuse me I need to be somewhere now.”

“Thank you again doctor,” the man says.

John lightly touches the man and woman, smiles and walks off. He abruptly gets on his cell phone.

The doctor looks radiant sitting in a convertible red Barchetta. In front of him is a sign on the wall with his name on it. He cranks the engine and spins the wheels backing up, leaving a feathering of burnt rubber. He drives dangerously around and around the sharp bends of the parking garage. He suddenly pulls to a stop at a lower level entrance to the hospital.

A beautiful, buxom blond woman who looks to be about in her 30s wearing high heels comes through the doors. She smiles as she sees him and walks towards the car. She opens the door, gets in the car and leans over kissing him on the cheek.

“Hi gorgeous,” John says.

“Hey there, doctor. I didn't think we'd get to see each other tonight.”

The woman is named Monique.

“Surgery didn't go long,” he responds.

He puts his hand on her thigh, which is covered by a tight, silk skirt. John slowly moves his hand up her leg and she doesn’t resist. He stops, looks at her and then speeds away.

John takes a right out of the garage and travels along Terwilliger Road in Portland, Oregon. It's a warm evening. The couple is enjoying the ride as the wind blows through their hair.

“Where are you taking me?”

“A secret place.”

“Ohh, I like secret.”

John and Monique sit in a swank restaurant only those with a sizable bank account enjoy. They are just finishing their appetizers, waiting for their main courses. The conversation is light. Monique sips on a glass of red wine. John has a cocktail glass half filled with Scotch.

“You know how much trouble we can get into, don't you?” she says breaking the silence.

“That's what makes it so much fun.”

She smiles seductively.

“The head of HR in an adulterous affair with the most talented and sexiest surgeon in Portland,” she says before taking a long draw of her wine.

Monique drops her right heel and slides her naked foot up John’s leg.

“Do we get to do more than dinner tonight?”

John frowns.

“I doubt it. I wasn't even hopeful of dinner,” he says.

John glances out the windows and sees a homeless woman. From his viewpoint it looks like she is staring right at him. She has a grocery cart full of bags, clothes and aluminum cans. John takes special notice of her.

“Hey, what's wrong?” Monique asks startling him.

“Oh, nothing. A bag lady is out there.”

Monique looks and sees nothing. The homeless woman has disappeared. John's phone vibrates. He retrieves it from his coat pockets and looks at it. He rolls his eyes.

“It's her. Shhhh,” he says smiling.

“Hello?”

He pauses.

“I'm still at the hospital.”

Monique smiles and runs her tongue over her lips as if this lie completely turns her on. She starts fiddling with John underneath the table with her foot. John can barely contain himself and almost breaks out laughing. He finally pushes her foot away so he can concentrate.

“I'm in a break room. They don't know where I am. Surgery didn't go well,” he charges.

Monique takes an ice cube from her water glass and slides the cube across her cleavage.

“What do you know how I feel about patients,” he blurts out. “You never ask. This was a tough case and I lost him.”

Monique continues her seduction but John looks more and more perturbed.

“Whatever. I'll finish things up here and be home in an hour or so.”

He hangs up. Monique frowns realizing their night is coming to an end.

“We have to go?” she asks.

The waiter arrives with dinner plates and places them in front of the couple.

“Is there anything else I can get for you?” he asks.

John drains his Scotch.

“Another one of these,” he says.

The waiter nods then leaves.

“We don't have to go until we finish our dinner.”

John and Monique look like lovers in the parking lot slowly strolling to the car. When they get there John leans her up against his red machine and gives Monique a long kiss.

“If only we could go to a hotel tonight,” he says.

“Aren't you expected in surgery right now?” she says facetiously.

“I wish. Next time...”

He opens the car door for her watching lustfully as she gets in and her skirt rides a little too high up her leg.

As John drives, he pays more attention to Monique than the road. He doesn’t realize the homeless woman he saw earlier is about to cross the street with her shopping cart full of belongings. The gleaming car plows into her cart, which explodes like a bomb sending clothes, cans, papers and cart fragments everywhere. The homeless woman is not hit but looks dazed. Her hands are still out in front of her as if she was still pushing her cart. John screeches to a halt and gets out of the car. He runs to the woman.

“What the hell you doing?” he demands.

The homeless woman just looks at him not sure what to say still looking in disbelief that her hands hold on to nothing.

“Do you have any idea how much my car is? Are you going to pay for the scratches your damn cart left?”

The woman continues to look at him. This only irritates John further as he walks closer to her.

“Well, do you have anything to say?” The bag lady just stares at him. “Why don't you go home?”

Still, the woman says nothing.

“Oh that's right you can't.”

In a rage, John pushes the woman with his two hands and she tumbles backwards hitting her rear-end first than twirling over. John turns around and kicks a piece of her cart that's left. He walks back to his car and gets in. Monique is aligning herself with her lover and she looks annoyed for him.

“I can't believe that woman stepped out in the street like that. Damn homeless,” John says.

“Is the car dented?”

“Not that I could see,” John says. “But I know there are scratches. This will cost me a fortune to get repainted.”

“Well, maybe tomorrow we can meet in our closet and I'll make things all better.”

“I can't wait.”

John speeds off spinning the car’s wheels and leaving a heavy dusting of smoke from the tires. The homeless woman fumbles on to her side and slowly manages to stand upright. She looks at what’s left of her belongings and shakes her head. Quietly, she picks up what she can salvage.

John slows to a stop next to Monique’s BMW SUV.

“See you tomorrow,” she says.

She gives him a long kiss on the lips before getting out of the car. John smiles watching her leave and speeds off before Monique even has a chance to open the door to her vehicle.

On the drive home with his adrenaline curbing, the Scotch takes its toll. Inebriated, John swerves in and out of the opposing lane because of the curvy roads. On a normal stretch of highway he’d dodge an arrest because he’s used to driving with a low level amount of alcohol in his blood. But the strength of the Scotch has made him tired and dreamy. Driving with one hand on the wheel and checking for messages on his phone doesn’t help his cause either.

Staring at his phone, he drifts into the opposing lane as another car heads right for him. The lights of the approaching vehicle wake him from his cell phone induced dazed. Just in time he corrects but too much and takes a sharp right off the road over an embankment. He drives through bushes trying to gain control as he gets bumped around. He’s invincible, at least in his mind, but really too cool to wear a seatbelt. He finally smashes into a tree where the car comes to a rest. The front of the once magnificent looking vehicle is totaled. John is bloodied and unresponsive.

John’s eyes flutter open. It’s bright where he’s at. He squints as his pupils adjust to the light. The realization that he’s in a hospital hits him. I’m not dead, he thinks. Or am I? He’s got scratches on his face and his head is in bandages. A familiar nurse walks in.

“Well, hello Dr. Kitzer. Welcome back to life. I'll go get your doctor,” she says with little compassion.

“What the hell happened?”

“You almost killed yourself. Drinking and driving is never a good idea John.”

The nurse leaves. John tries to rub his head but his hand is stopped short by the silver bracelet clutched around his wrist.  

Two weeks later and almost fully recovered, John sits in a courtroom with his lawyer. All that’s left of his accident is a small bandage on his head and a pending court verdict. He glances at the judge who is busy looking at some papers. Just then, the judge looks over at John. He and his lawyer rise.

“Dr. John Kitzer,” the judge says as if he’s pondering the name. “Huh, you'd think a doctor would know better.”

The judge pauses for effect.

“You're lucky you didn't kill the other driver ,” he begins. “I'm surprised he stopped to see if you were all right.”

He pauses again.

“Six months probation. Suspended driver's license and 180 hours community service.”

The Judge bangs his gavel.

John looks a bit beleaguered, certainly more humble than at any time in his life as he serves soup in a downtown Portland soup kitchen. He stands nervously behind a big pot checking out the room where a few homeless mill about when suddenly the door opens and a hoard of the dungiest and smelliest men and women walk in. One by one they enter and get in line.  The smell breezes over him so he leans towards the brew to curtail the stench.

Each person holds up a bowl and John spills in a cup full of soup. No one talks to him.

“Speed it up John. We've got a lot of hungry folk,” says Baldwin, the shelter manager.

John looks back at him and then at the line, which is now out the door. He obeys like a schoolboy trying to stay out of trouble.

After about 45 minutes, the soup line is now to the door but there are still about 30 people waiting. The room is full of homeless sitting at tables eating in silence. At a normal restaurant you’d have to speak in a louder voice just to be heard, but not here.

John continues serving looking a little more relaxed as the line draws to an end. The sunset on this awful day is drawing near. He looks up and his eyes widen a bit. The homeless woman he pushed down and almost ran over is in front of him. She smiles holding up her bowl.

“Hello,” she says rather meekly.

John nods quickly in an attempt to not be recognized. He quickly serves the soup and looks at the next person in line. If the woman recognized him, she hid it well.

John sits in a private conference room nursing a can of Coke. Inside is a beat up metal desk. Dented filing cabinets sit off to the side. One drawer refuses to close all the way thanks to what looks like a fist punch in the side. Paperwork is everywhere and the 10 year old computer looks ancient. Baldwin sits down next to him.

“So what did ya think?” he asks.

“I can't believe all the homeless in this town.”

“There is a lot isn't there,” Baldwin says. “Unfortunately a lot is wasted youth to drugs that's for sure. But there are the true needy. There are a number of veterans, as cliché as that sounds. And others, well it's just their lot in life.”

John says nothing as he runs his thumb around the rim of the Coke can.

“So how long we have you for?”

“180 hours. Or I guess now 175.”

“I hope you don't let this go to waste,” Baldwin says like a concerned guidance counselor. “It's a wake up call for some.”

Baldwin gets up from the table leaving John sitting there like a 12 year old waiting dreadfully for Mom and Dad. Back in the dining area John sees most have finished their soup and gone back out on the streets. He looks around and sees the homeless woman he encountered before. She looks up and smiles. She's playing cards by herself. John takes a deep breath and walks over to her.

 “Well, hello. Would you like to sit down?” she says.

“Uh, sure,” John says.

He takes a seat and waits for the woman to say something.

“Thank you for serving us this morning.”

She goes back to playing cards.

“You, uh, were the only one that said hello. Are most of the people, uh, not friendly?"

Without looking up from her cards, she says, “Oh no. It's not that we aren't friendly. I think for some it is embarrassment. Others they are so drugged out they don't even know where they are. And for most, they assume you won't talk to them.”

John takes in what she said. It’s something he’s never heard before.

“So what did you do?” she asks without looking at him.

John looks confused.

“Huh?” he manages.

“Why did you get sentenced to community service?”

“How, how did you know?” John asks incredulously.

“I've been homeless for a long time dear. Handsome, sophisticated men like you don't volunteer out of the goodness of their hearts.”

John’s never been punched in the gut before but he’s certain this is what it feels like. For the first time in his life, he’s completely humbled.

“I, uh, I was drinking and driving. I almost killed myself.”

“Oh boy. We get a lot of you volunteering. No one ever comes back though. On their own. I often think if it weren't for people like you there would be no one to serve us.”

John smiles meekly.

“What’s your name,” he asks.

The homeless woman looks at him abruptly as if she’s taken aback.

“Bethany,” she says matter-of-factly. “My name is Bethany.”

It's the end of another day as John pours soup. He is noticeably more into the process and is even greeted by those in line. He smiles and nods and asks a few how they are doing and if he can get them anything other than soup.

“Hi Bethany,” he says as Bethany holds out her soup bowl for him to fill.

“Hi John,” she says as if talking to an old friend. “A round of cribbage after lunch?”

“Of course.”

John smiles and greets the next person in line. There is a noticeable glow to him. He’s changing.

What is now a Saturday ritual, John and Bethany square off in a tense battle of cribbage. They look like old friends who’ve played one another for years.

“So how much longer do we have you?” Bethany asks.

“A few more weeks.”

“We'll sure miss you.”

“Who says I am going anywhere?”

“That's what they all say. Rarely do they come back on their own and it's never for very long.”

John stays silent.

“John, have you talked to your wife?”

“No, she still refuses to see me.”

“Well, you almost killed yourself John. She almost lost her husband.”

“Sometimes I think that would have been better.”

“Now John why would you say such a thing?”

          The patient is about to reveal all to his counselor.

“There's something else I haven't told you.”

“Oh...”

John stays silent.

“Oh come now John. Spill it.”

“I was with another woman that night.”

Bethany rolls her eyes and continues playing her hand.

“Oh Dr. Kitzer. You're such a cliché. The powerful handsome doctor with the beautiful faithful wife at home and the gorgeous young thing on the side.”

Damn, I’m a screw-up, he thinks.

“How do you think I ended up this way?” Bethany asks him.

He scrunches his face up. “Wha,” is all he gets out before he’s interrupted.

“My father cheated on my mother,” Bethany begins. “She kicked him out of the house. He never came back. Ran away with that woman. Mom was never the same. Boyfriend after boyfriend. Then they started coming on to me.”

John's mouth slowly opens in shock.

“After the first guy touched me,” Bethany continues. “I was out of there. I was only 15 years old.”

Bethany lets the information hang for a second.

“Now how's a 15 year old girl supposed to get along in the world?” she asks almost to herself. “That was a long time ago.”

John stares at her as they continue play.

Baldwin sits at his desk hitting one key on the keyboard harder and harder willing it to work with every stab. John barges in the door unannounced relieving Baldwin of his demonic computer.

“Hello John. Hey, thanks again for all your involvement. The folks seem to really like you. Especially Bethany.”

John dismisses the statements.

“What do you all do for medical care around here?”

“Huh?”

“Who gives these people check ups? What if someone needs surgery or medication?”

“No one gets check ups. If there's an emergency that's what your taxes are for.”

“I want to start a medical clinic.”

“Huh?”

“I want to help these people with their medical issues. I've got contacts at my hospital. We can get supplies and medications over here.”

Baldwin has heard this all before.

“But for how long John? We are not flush with cash. Most of our funds dry up pretty quick with overhead and food.”

“I'll volunteer my time. As far as expenses I'll get what I can from the hospital but are there grants or other funding we can tap into?”

“I'll look but don't hold your breath,” Baldwin says throwing John a rope. “When do you want to start this?”

“Next week! Today! We can use the side storage room that's empty.”

“John, I am impressed,” Baldwin says. “I thought for sure you'd be in and out and gone. I'll make some phone calls.”

John clenches his fist as if his favorite team just scored, spins around and goes back to the kitchen. 

What was once a small empty storage closet is now an exam room with a makeshift examination table. A homeless man sits on the table as Dr. Kitzer, dressed in a white coat and stethoscope around his neck, examines him.

“OK Drake. I don't think the rash is anything to worry about. I will try and get an ointment for it to relieve the itching this week.”

“OK Doc.”

“Be sure you check by this week. And don't itch it. Whatever you do.”

“OK, I won't. I'll come by Tuesday or Wednesday.”

“OK. And don’t forget.”

John opens the door and lets Drake out. Bethany and Baldwin waiting for him on the other side.

“Hi Bethany. Come on in,” John says.

She smiles and gets up from her chair. She walks inside.

“John, a moment,” Baldwin says.

John lets Bethany walk in and he walks out closing the door.

“John, the clinic is taking too much of our resources,” Baldwin says.

John takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. This is not the first time he’s heard this, he was hoping the issue would simply go away.

“We don't have the means to stay open so late or pay for the ointments and creams you keep providing.”

“But it's helping isn't it?”

“Of course it's helping but we can't rely on volunteers and government funding. Sooner or later it all dries up.”

“Then how can we stay open?” John says.

“Find a donor. A generous donor. That's how it should be done, anyway,” Baldwin concludes. “People helping people.”

Defeated, John turns and walks back into the faux exam room. 

“Bethany, what brings you in?”

“John, I just don't feel well lately. I keep getting these cramps in my stomach.”

“OK, lie back on the table. I'll palpate your stomach.”

“You'll what?” Bethany asks in astonishment as if John has said something untoward.

“I'm going to check your stomach,” he assures her, laughing. It’s lost on him that Bethany has never had a medical exam.

John lifts her shirt and his eyes widen a little. He smiles at her. He gently presses with his fingers.

“Ouch. That's tender.”

“OK, how bout now?”

“That's not as tender.”

John continues to lightly press on Bethany's stomach. Her skin has a yellow tinge to it and John focuses his exam around the left side of her abdomen.

John sits in the office of the hospital president Dr. Malcolm Rees. Long gone is the look of an arrogant, powerful doctor. Malcolm looks a foot taller than John sitting across a pristine maple wood desk. John’s eyes plead with Malcolm.

“John, I understand where you are coming from. And believe me, I am impassioned just seeing the very welcome change in you since your accident,” Malcolm says. “But this hospital can't afford to pay for every homeless person in Portland.”

“Just blood work Malcolm. This lady…”

John bites his lip. Tears form in his eyes. He can’t be seen like this but at the same time he does. He knows the change benefits his new friend.

“Bethany.” He pauses. “She has become my world down there. And there is something wrong with her. I need to get some blood work to see what's going on and what I can do.”

Malcolm says nothing. He looks at John as if he’s ready to tender a verdict in a singing contest.

“Ok John,” he finally says. “This is it. We'll pay...I'll pay for it myself. Get her in here and we'll do the blood tests. No one knows about this, understood?”

John’s eyes light up. His smile is of pure joy.

“Absolutely. Thank you so much Malcolm.”

Gone are the warn-out dirty garments Bethany wears every day. She looks different lying down in a hospital bed wearing a gown. She looks, well, like any other patient. Despite her condition she looks better than she has since she's had a shower and looks clean. John walks in. He is wearing full doctor garb and carries the authority. A little bit of old John is present but this is the part every patient wants to see in their doctor. He looks solemn. He pulls a chair and sits next to Bethany.

“John, don't look so despondent.”

He says nothing. He grabs her hand. The frightened boy is back.

“It's not good Bethany.”

She smiles. Nothing at this point in her life could really affect her. Even cancer.

 “Your blood work came back not so good.”

John’s lip quivers a little. He’s holding back, not for him but for her. He wants to be strong but Bethany broke down all the walls John built up over the years.

“The X-rays indicate something going on inside.”

“Just be straight with me John.”

He pauses. He looks down as if to summon the strength to say what he needs to say.         

“You have cancer and need surgery.”

“Well, how is that going to happen?” Bethany says right back as if she’s simply been told she needs to fly across the country.

“I'll do it and I'll pay for it.”

“Oh John.”

Bethany looks at him lovingly like a mother would. She touches his face with her hand and smiles. John clenches his lip and before the damn bursts he quickly leaves the room.

John is back in form as he operates on Bethany. Two nurses help him; Bethany's vitals are strong. He has just started an incision. One of the nurses hands him a surgical tool, which he grabs with confidence and digs in. He will save Bethany.

Suddenly he stops.

His eyes form tears, but he can’t wipe them away. His gloves are full of blood and he has a mask on. The nurse notices his sudden change in demeanor. John begins working again.

“What's going on doctor?” a nurse asks.

“I'm closing her up. We're done.”

John sits quietly in the recovery room looking over a chart when Bethany slowly opens her eyes and wakes up. He stands and checks her over. She flutters her eyes and manages a smile with the hope that she is now cured.

“How did it go, John,” she asks. “To tell you the truth, I don’t feel any better.”

John smiles. She always has a wit about her. “You know you were under anesthesia, don’t you?”

 She laughs. Barely.

“Bethany, I don't have very good news.”

Bethany looks at him with pleading eyes. Just spill it, resonates in his head.

“I didn't do anything Bethany. The cancer has spread. There's nothing I can or could have done.”

He breaks down. A weeping child about to lose his mother. And like a mother, Bethany remains strong.

“I'm so sorry. There's nothing more I can do.”

“It's OK John,” Bethany assures him. “Dr. Kitzer.”

She smiles.

“What's next, John?”

“I don't know how much time you have left. I will do everything to keep you comfortable.”

The two sit in silence. Not an uncomfortable silence by any means. The silence that comes with a moment in time one wishes would last a little longer.

“It was me,” John suddenly blurts out.

“What was you?”

“I hit your cart,” he says almost yelling to bust through the emotional cracking in his voice. “I pushed you. I pushed you on the ground Bethany.”

He buries his face in his hands, sobbing. Full of shame and full of regret.

“Who was I? What was I?” he mutters to himself.

“I know,” Bethany says in a whisper.

John continues sobbing but abruptly stops. He suddenly realizes what he heard. He looks up at her.

“You knew?”

“Yes I did. I knew from the first time you filled my soup bowl.”

“You, you didn't say anything. In fact, you were the only one who said anything to me that day.”

“I forgave my father for a lot more and a long time ago,” Bethany explains. “You were a stranger John. I forgave you that night.”

“I destroyed everything you had,” John says almost pleading with her to hate him. “I almost hit you. I pushed you! On the ground all because I hit you with my car.

“John, you've come a long way. Have you seen your wife?”
“No. No I haven't.”

“Go to her. Stop hiding. Tell her what you've done. Ask for her hand back.”

“OK, OK, I will.”

“Now John. Stop hiding. Go now.”

“But…”

“I'll be fine. Go to her. Get your life back. You gave me mine, go get yours.”

It’s a dreary Portland day. Of course, it’s raining. A small crowd of homeless stand in the rain, they are used to it. John and his wife, Amelia, along with Malcolm sit comfortably under a canopy. Another well-dressed man sits idly by. Bethany’s coffin is covered from the rain. John has paid for all the funeral expenses.

“When the righteous triumph, there is great glory, but when the wicked rise, men hide themselves,” the officiating Pastor proclaims. “He who conceals his transgressions will not prosper, but he who confesses and forsakes them will find compassion.”

The pastor closes his Bible. The rain has stopped and the sun shines through a temporary break in the clouds. John stares at Bethany's coffin. The homeless on hand begin to stir. The funeral is over.

Amelia tugs her husband after a moment and the two get up and head out. A distance away, John glances back one more time. Malcolm walks along with them towards their cars.

“I'm really sorry John,” Malcolm manages. “She was a special woman.”

“In more ways then one,” Amelia says smiling.

John smiles sheepishly. He has a long way to go to fully reconcile with his wife but he’s a changed man.

“I am really proud of what you were able to accomplish John,” Malcolm says. “I'm just sorry there's no funding and the hospital can't do more.”

          John says nothing. The three continue their slow walk.

“I hope you'll continue to do what you are doing even on a small scale,” Malcolm finally says breaking the silence. “Maybe I'll even come down and help out.”

The three stop. John smiles and looks assuringly at Malcolm, his boss.

“That'd be nice,” he says. “Thanks Malcolm.”

“Thank you John.”

Malcolm turns and walks away. John looks at Amelia.     

“Dr. John Kitzer?” says a voice out of nowhere.

John turns and sees the man who was under the canopy. He didn’t recognize him nor did he even pay any attention to him. The man does a slow trot to catch up and extends his hand as he gets closer.

“I'm Alex Cranston. Bethany's power of attorney.”

John crinkles his brow. Power of attorney? This is all news to him. What would Bethany need an attorney for? She was homeless and had no family.

“I've known Bethany for years,” Alex begins. “I don't know how much you know about Bethany but I'm guessing it's not a whole lot.”

“I know some,” John says as if he’s being challenged on who is a bigger fan of some sports team.

“Well did you know she was actually quite well off?”

“Huh?” John says realizing perhaps he didn’t know as much about his friend as he had hoped.

“Long story short,” Alex says, “Bethany's father willed her a large sum of money when he died. She just never used it.”

“What? Really? What are you saying?”

“Bethany came by my office a week or so ago. That's when I first learned she didn't think she had much time. She wanted to give you a gift.”

John stands in stunned silence. Amelia grabs his hand in support.

“She has willed all of her money to you on condition it goes towards a medical clinic for the homeless.”

“I, I don't know what to say,” John stammers.

“There's more than $5 million in a trust in her name which is now in your name with the obvious conditions.”

John's mouth opens. His eyes fill with tears. He’s now been fully broken.

Alex pulls out a business card. He hands it to John.

“Here's my card. Call me or come by my office this week. We'll go over the details.”

John looks at the card and then back at Alex and then at Amelia. He wants to say something but doesn’t know what to say.

“You made quite an impression on her Dr. Kitzer,” Alex says.

“She made quite an impression on me.”

“So I hear.”

Alex smiles. John smiles too and so does Amelia. If he ever gets his oversized ego back, there are plenty of people around to pop it. Alex and John shake hands once again before Alex walks off to his car.

 “Call me,” Alex says over his shoulder.

John and Amelia continue walking. John turns once last time at Bethany's casket. He smiles, this time of joy and admiration to the homeless woman that changed his life.