Daily Drama (In American TV Shows)

Clearly annoyed at having lost so much money, Doctor Foreman didn't respond to my gratitude, instead sitting behind a microscope, occasionally jotting down notes in a log.

"How was your game, PJ?" asked Doctor Cameron, also taking a seat. "We wanted to come and cheer you on, but you know how it is. We had to monitor Dan's treatment. By the way, he's doing really well. His parents were very happy," she continued, examining one of the synthetic skins spread out on the table.

"We were lucky to diagnose Dan, and even luckier that the treatment is working," I said, relieved for the sick teenager. "The game went pretty well. We won on the last play," I replied to the kind doctor's first question while still suturing. There came a point in all my years of practice where it was natural for my hands to continue their work even when I was focused on other things.

After a few seconds of not hearing any feedback from Cameron, I shifted my focus from my suturing work to find the reason behind Cameron's silence. She was carefully examining one of the synthetic skins that she had left aside after suturing.

"What's up?" I asked the focused doctor.

"This is very good, well done, Chase," replied Doctor Cameron, nodding approvingly at her medical colleague.

Chase, also diverting his attention from his own suturing work, briefly inspected the synthetic skin in the doctor's hand. "That's not mine, it's House Junior's," he said, identifying the work with a mildly ironic smile.

Ignoring Chase's joke, I explained to the astonished doctor who was still closely examining the work, "Chase has been teaching me."

"Then this one is yours?" she asked incredulously, scrutinizing each point more closely. "It's unfair," she continued, placing the skin on the table. "How can someone be born with so much talent? For me to reach this level, I had to practice for years in school."

Lowering my head, avoiding Cameron's incredulous gaze, I continued with my own sutures.

"Scary, isn't it? Imagine what he'll achieve after medical school," said Chase, laughing and shaking his head.

Exhaling with exasperation from his solitary workstation, Doctor Foreman made his annoyance known.

"Oh, come on, Foreman," said Cameron, picking up the synthetic skin again from the table. "Look at this. You can't say that PJ doesn't have talent. Knowing things from books is one thing, but having the talent for these things is another," she continued, tossing the skin to the irked doctor, who took it and studied it for a moment before setting it aside with a tightly closed mouth.

"Anyway, he can't be here," he suddenly said, more excitedly, ignoring Cameron's strange proud looks.

It seemed like Cameron was going to say something again, but the sound of a pager interrupted her. The three doctors, ignoring the current discussion, quickly checked their own devices, two of them putting them away again, presumably having not received any news.

"House is looking for you, PJ. He's in the clinic," said Chase, who hadn't put down his pager until that moment.

Getting up from my seat, I silently thanked Chase as I also bid farewell to Cameron with a wave, walking towards the door. Under the doorframe, I remembered Foreman's comment. "By the way, I can be anywhere in the hospital," I said, searching for my credentials. "Doctor Cuddy takes care of that," I said, showing the annoyed doctor the said credential.

Before he could respond, I left the lab for the outpatient clinic where I was sure House was waiting for me.

After greeting Nurse Fryday, she pointed me to where House was, also handing me the chart of the next patient.

"Hey," I greeted House, who was sitting on the bed in the room, reading a magazine. "Cosmopolitan?" I asked, reading the magazine in his hands.

With some effort, House got up from the bed with annoyance, setting the magazine aside. "Research," he said shamelessly, sitting down on the chair in the room. "Today, I'm going to teach you something very important that a good doctor must do," he continued, playing with his cane in his hands.

"What do you think is the first thing to do when diagnosing a patient?" he asked, still playing with his cane.

"Read their information," I replied, pointing to the file in my hands.

"No," said House seriously, finally lifting his gaze from his cane. "The first thing to do is to observe the patient," he continued, pointing his cane at me. "You make eye contact, so you're not ashamed to be here. You're wearing cheap but good quality clothes, recently bought. You have your watch on your left wrist, so you're right-handed. Your fingers are clean and smooth, but your palms aren't. You don't do manual labor, obviously. So you probably exercise, possibly just started lifting weights. Your haircut, unlike people your age, is short and well-styled, simple, not extravagant. You have good hygiene. Your nails are well trimmed, and there's no dirt under them, so you wash your hands enough to reduce the risk of a stomach infection. Obviously, you don't wear glasses. If you did, you'd have marks on the bridge of your nose, and right now, you're not wearing contacts. You have good vision since you can read the title of this magazine from where you're standing, and as far as I can see, both your ears work well. Usually, when a person has reduced hearing in one ear, they tilt their head in that direction," he finished when the door to the office was heard.

"Here," said House, handing me a small notebook and snatching the file from my hands. "Try what I just did now and write down what you see. In the end, we'll see how you did," he continued seriously. "Go ahead," he said when the office door was knocked, raising his voice to the office door.

Nurse Fryday entered along with a patient behind her. Thanking the nurse, I closed the door behind her as House got up from his chair, making the patient sit on the bed.

"Well, let's see what we have here," said House after a few seconds, opening the file in his hands and reading the papers inside.

Opening the small notebook that House had given me, I attempted to do what he had shown me, listening in the background to what House was discussing with the woman.

Woman in her early twenties, not embarrassed to be in the office, clutching her stomach, possibly in pain but without facial expressions indicating pain. She's sweating despite being in a well-ventilated room and wearing comfortable, cool clothing, especially her shoes. No implant as far as I could tell when she moved her arm.

Closing the notebook, House, who seemed to have his attention divided, asked me silently if I had finished, nodding as the doctor handed me the open file, urging me to read it.

Quickly reading the file, I nodded to House, who was waiting for me. "So, do you have any additional questions?" he asked arrogantly, probably knowing the diagnosis.

"When was the last time you had your period?" I asked, trying to ignore House's attitude.

Furrowing her brow, the patient seemed to try to remember. "A little over two weeks ago," she finally replied after a few seconds of thinking.

"So, Duncan?" House asked again, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms.

"Pregnancy," I said, closing the file.

Nodding slightly, House returned his attention to the now extremely pale patient.

After House dealt with the patient, providing the necessary information and organizing an appointment with an obstetrician, he took the notebook from my hands.

"Well, I guess you could say this's good, you have good instincts," he said after a moment, reading what I had written. "Well spotted with the shoes, but you missed the reason behind it. She had some swelling in the lower part of her legs. She didn't have a ring, so probably we will have a new messy marriage there. She didn't have a watch, so you couldn't tell whether she's left-handed or right-handed, but she did have a mark on her right hand's middle finger, which is usually caused by writing a lot," continued House seriously, explaining things I had overlooked. "You might think that kind of stuff isn't important for making the diagnosis, and in the vast majority of cases, that's true, but you don't want to miss out on a truly vital piece of information in a case," said House again seriously, opening his magazine.

After a few seconds of silence, absorbing what House had explained, I asked, "What's next?" House looked up from his magazine. "Go for the next one," he continued, handing me the file in his hands.

I continued with the same routine alongside House. While House pretended to engage in a friendly conversation with the patients, I jotted down my observations of each one.

After bidding farewell to the last patient, House checked his watch. "Well, it's time," he said, getting ready to leave the room. "I want you to fill that notebook with people you don't know," he said, pausing at the door. "Pay attention to things you normally wouldn't," he continued, placing his hand on my shoulder. "And maybe, just maybe, you might become one-tenth as good as me," he finished with an ironic smile.

Ignoring his joke, I removed his hand from my shoulder and left the clinic. "See you later, House," I said, bidding him goodbye. After saying goodbye to Nurse Fryday, I went to House's office to grab my backpack and head home with Mom.

After Mom said goodbye to her co-workers, we left the hospital. On the way home, while Mom asked questions about my day, I recounted how hers had been.

At home, after greeting Bob, who was as usual sitting in his armchair watching television and drinking a beer, I went outside Teddy's room, knocking on the door to make myself heard over the music coming from my sister's room.

"Come in," I heard Teddy's voice over the music from her room.

Opening the door, I found my sister reading a magazine on her bed. "PJ," she greeted cheerfully, putting the magazine aside.

"Did you finish your homework?" I asked, taking a seat in the corner of her bed.

"Yes," she said calmly, "it wasn't difficult," she continued quickly, worried after seeing, presumably, a disappointed look on my face. Helping her with her homework was an important part of my day.

"It's okay," I said, trying to reassure my sister, sitting in the corner of her bed. "How was your day?" I asked, trying to start a conversation.

"Fine. My friend Baja told us about a..." she began to speak after a moment, like a faucet being turned on, Teddy gradually started talking about gossip in her school and the people involved, who likes whom, 'horrible' things someone did, and a bunch of other things that are important to a teenager.

By the time I finished talking with Teddy, it was time for dinner the family dinner happened without much important to talk about, Bob as always told us about some building with thousands of small insects that he had to take care of Gabe also talked about what happened at his school and Mom repeated many of the things she talked about with me in the car. 

After dinner, Bob, Gabe, and I went to our homemade gym. Bob and I worked with weights that pushed our limits, while we made Gabe work with weights that wouldn't hurt him.

We continued exercising for an hour. Gabe, due to his age, stopped before us but stayed with us until Bob and I finished our routine. After wiping the sweat off my body, I finished the book that House had left in my care, while listening to Gabe practice one of his songs. Setting aside the notes I had been taking while studying the book, I prepared to go to bed, putting the book away and lying down, still listening to Gabe play. I turned off the alarm for the next day.

Unaware of when I fell asleep deeply under the sound of Gabe's soothing guitar. The next day, after Gabe and I went for a run a few hours later than we usually do during the week, I took a shower and got ready for my date with Regina.

Bob, who would be taking me to the cafe, was waiting at the front door. "Ready, champ?" he asked, with his hand on my shoulder.

Nodding to Bob, we left the house to get into his beat-up pickup truck. "You're almost sixteen. Have you thought about getting a car?" Bob asked as he drove the truck into town.

"Yeah, my friend Brock told me that his uncle was selling an old car. I was going to visit him on Sunday to see its condition and how much he was going to sell it for," I told him.

"Do you have the money to buy it?" Bob asked calmly.

"I have some savings, but I was thinking of getting a job if necessary. Maybe tutoring or perhaps babysitting on weekends," I lied. If my bet paid off, I would have a few thousand dollars in a few days.

"Yeah, that could work," said Bob, nodding. "I could lend you the money if you need it," he continued after a moment.

"Maybe advance my allowance by a thousand dollars," I said hopefully. With the money I had earned from House's bets and my own, combined with a few hundred dollars that PJ had saved up, I had two thousand eight hundred dollars secured for the fight bet. With those thousand dollars, it could be three thousand eight hundred.

After a moment of silence and taking a deep breath, Bob nodded. "It's okay," he said, nodding slightly. "You'd better make sure your grades are perfect," he joked, laughing as he slowed down to stop in front of the cinema.

"Don't worry, they will be, and I promise I'll pay every cent back. Thanks, Dad," I quickly said to him.

Laughing as he shook his head, Bob opened the passenger door. "Let's go. You have to get there before the lady, and I have to go to the bank. See you in two hours?" he asked, opening the passenger door. Thanking Bob, I got out of his beat-up truck.

Watching Bob's truck drive away, I walked to the cafe where I was supposed to meet Regina. "Hello," I greeted the barista behind the counter. "Sarah," I said, reading her name tag. "Do you have a table available for two?" I asked, leaning slightly over the counter, trying to be as polite as possible.

The busy barista, as more people entered the cafe, huffed with annoyance. "I don't know, try looking around the place. There might be some free tables," she said exasperatedly as she worked quickly, preparing coffee cups.

Nodding slightly to the still disinterested barista, I moved away from the counter, searching for an open table. I took a seat at a recently vacated table next to the window in the cafe.

After waiting for a few seconds, I decided to start on the 'assignment' that House had given me. Taking the small notebook out of my back pocket, I began to describe the people in the cafe. There were elderly people sipping coffee while reading the newspaper, one of them took a pill along with his coffee. Judging by the tremor in his hands and the strength of his glasses, I theorized it could be a heart problem.

Sarah, the barista, was another person of interest. Working behind the counter in a cafe was something I didn't have the pleasure of knowing, but the excessive sweating on her forehead and her lack of balance on her feet didn't seem natural for a barista working on a cool workday.

Focused on the barista, I didn't notice when Regina had entered the cafe. "Hey," she said, sitting across from me at the table.

---

Author Thoughts:

As always, I am not American, much less a doctor.

I have been completely sick for several days, I don't know if it's COVID, I have to get some tests done. The weekly chapter will always be published unless there is a completely special case. Thank you very much to all those who support this novel day by day, I hope you send me your energies like Goku because I'm really sick.

I think that's all, as always, if you find any errors, please let me know and I will correct them immediately.

Thank you for reading :D

PS: PLEASE LEAVE A REVIEW.