Jack

Name: Jack Daniels

Age: 34

Race: Caucasian

Looks: Jet black hair, cut short. Sad and intimidating steel-gray eyes. Average height, average weight, a little above the average strength. Scars scattered about his body, though most are on his back.

Occupation: Diagnostics doctor, specializing in immunology. Was formerly a soldier in the Iraq war.

Anything else?: He hates children and has a German Shepard, Sarge, by his side ALWAYS. Though, no one knows why.

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“The patient has an enlargement of the thyroid gland. I really think it’s just a goiter.”

I eyed the lit hallways, hospital staff flying in and out through doors. I really wasn’t looking forward to working clinic hours. “Julia,” I grunted, still not tearing my eyes away from scoping out each and every square inch of the area. “You’re changing the subject. Just do the damn skin biopsy of that one patient.”

I could feel Julia’s glare burning into my skin. “Dr.Griffin won’t like this.”

My mouth went in a tight line, and I finally tore my gaze away from the cluster of chairs I had been studying. Julia was a slight woman, but a damn good doctor at that, though she stuck to the ethics too much. Her hair was a taught red, usually always in a ponytail, and her eyes a strict green. “Dr.Griffin doesn’t like anything. Do the damn biopsy.”

“Fine,” She answered lightly, turning away from my side to walk back to where we’d came from. Over her shoulder, she added, “Good luck finding your dog.”

“Yeah,” I snapped back through gritted teeth. “I’ll find him.” I rounded a corner, Sarge’s leash in my hand. Vending machines full of healthy crap food met my eyes, reminding me that Sarge might be in the cafeteria.

“Dr.Daniels?”

I turned around, allowing my jaw to unclench. A tall and lean neurologist was casually handling a phone out to me in his right hand. “For you.”

“Is it Dr.Griffin?”

“No, it’s your father.”

“I’m calling my lawyer.” He handed the phone to me anyways, and I reluctantly brought it to my ear. “Dad. You could have called me after hours.”

Without skipping a beat, a frail elderly voice of a man responded, “Did you find your dog? He’s with Julie, over in room 110.”

I bit my lip, angrily, trying not to lose my sanity. “The answer is no.”

His voice got higher, dad’s British accent lightening a bit. “You didn’t find him?” I held my tongue, feeling the urge to once again reassure dad that he couldn’t see into the damn future. I’d been trying to get him into the psychiatric ward for months, without prevail. So, hell, I’d thought. If he waved his son’s medical opinion away with the twitch of an eyebrow, I’d quit listening. Father wanted me to listen. When I didn’t, he’d cut the crap for a few days.

“No,” I repeated again, calmly. “And you didn’t either.”

I hung up.