I simply don’t have time for this right now, Mr. Hassan,” Dr. Ager says curtly.
Jordan hadn’t been expecting the doctor to jump up and down in excitement at his discovery, but he’d definitely thought she’d be interested. But even as he’s laying out Hannah’s story for her—the group home, the tent city on Twelfth Avenue—she barely looks up from her computer. Instead she’s typing as she talks, working a surprisingly fast hunt-and-peck.
“The New York State Office of Mental Health is investigating our program. The records system needed an update a decade ago. I’m short-staffed, the board is breathing down my neck, and I don’t know what you’re doing in my office when you’re supposed to be on the ward.” Her words come out quickly, distractedly. She hits the Return key with a bang.
“I’m on my lunch break,” Jordan says, but she doesn’t seem to hear him. She’s typing again.
“You don’t even have proof that Hannah stayed at Fillan House, do you? We’ve discussed this before. You’re not a detective, and neither am I or anyone who works at Belman.”
“I understand that,” Jordan says. “But I think knowing what happened might help her get better—”
“A different prescription regimen is more likely to help her. So would honest communication with those who are involved in her care,” Dr. Ager says briskly.
“What if she truly can’t remember? What if she needs someone to tell her?”
What if it’s easier for her to believe she’s a time traveler than it is for her to face whatever’s in her past?
Dr. Ager runs a hand through her short, graying bangs. She looks tired. Overwhelmed. “And what would happen then? Do you think Hannah would miraculously recover? I’m sorry to say that it doesn’t work that way. Psychiatry offers treatments, not cures, and there are no quick fixes. Your professors—not to mention your time here at Belman—should’ve taught you this by now.”
She turns back to her computer and begins typing again. He’s been dismissed.
Outside Dr. Ager’s office, Jordan slaps the bright white wall in frustration. Max, who is not trying very hard to settle into life on Ward 6, stalks by with a fistful of markers in his hand. He probably stole them from the art therapy room, but Jordan doesn’t feel any urge to find out.
“Fuck this, fuck that, fuck you,” Max mutters.
“Hi, Max,” Jordan says. “We’re going to show Space Jam in the lounge this afternoon.”
Max gives him the finger.
“See ya later, buddy,” Jordan says, his voice falsely bright.
Could he ask Amy to call Fillan House? Dr. Nicholas? They’d want to help. But they wouldn’t make the call if they found out that Dr. Ager had told him to drop it.
What had the woman at Fillan said? Doctors, lawyers—police, if necessary.
So Jordan pulls out his phone and googles the number for the Midtown North precinct.