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Chapter 1 - City buses are better.
In all his years of medicine - scratch that- in all his years, and there have been more than many, Dr. Michael ‘Robby’ Robinavitch has always been adamant that rural life was not for him. He grew up clean, tidy, a little wild but still civilised and certainly not rolling around in mud (past the age of 14 anyway). Through every summer of every year, every placement option discussion and every job interview the first thing to come out of his mouth is always, “Cities not small towns, big lights not big desolate spaces.”
Each time he got his way. Trip to the countryside in the south of France changed to Paris, road trips to the mountains of Alaska rerouted to the nearest hotel within walking distance. Desolate medical centres hundreds of miles from the nearest referral centre changed to big city ones with too many referral centres for the amount of documented diagnosis.
Until this stupid summer placement.
Part of him regrets squirting the saline in his colleagues face, if only for the fact he was now sitting in an overly cramped bus (even for his city boy standards), looking out of a window at nothing but dry ground and the occasional field. He doesn’t actually regret the saline - even if his apology letter states differently. The guy was a homophobic prick and deserved it. Who is homophobic in 2026? How much of a life has to be lived under a rock to have such an out-dated and conservative opinion?
Robby supposed he was about to find out, he was traveling to what has got to be the only medical centre (if it can even be called that) in a 500 mile radius, in a state he is certain is only populated by natives and super religious hooligans that hate the rest of the world.
He just prayed that the other doctor at this centre was decent, oh and that the next 6 months flew by so much he has no recollection of anything happening at all.
After about 2 hours on the bus, crushed between his suitcase and the clearly deaf old local that had apparently decided to sit next to him, regardless of being the only other person on said bus, Robby noticed a small white structure approaching and a sign saying “Huckleberry Farm”. Said farm was certainly the biggest, and most lively farm he had seen in the whole two hours of land his eyes gazed upon.
The small white structure was clearly a small, well-maintained house, with a long line of fencing stretching across the brightest patch of grass Robby thinks he had ever seen. The field seemed to go on for quite some distance, even had a few rows of flowers pottered around the edges, and a greenhouse? Regardless, there were sheep, chickens, goats, pigs and horses scattered across… but no humans?
Well it was 7pm, they are probably having dinner. Which is a shame since he will have to rudely interrupt the occasion to ask how the hell he gets to his accommodation, since apparently the bus stop outside this farm is the closest form of public transport to it.
And no, he could not bring his car. 1 because it is not built for the rural roads, and two because it wouldn’t arrive for well over a week anyway.
Glad to be free of the bus, and trying to not get dirt on his trainers, Robby approached the gate to the house. The lights were on - well one light, so someone had to be home at least. He had been told that there would be someone to meet him at this house, and that they would be able to drive him to the bungalow he was supposed to be staying at. The door was a light blue, and had a brass knocker in the form of a snake with a surprisingly loud knock.
If it weren’t for the fact it was getting dark, and he was tired, Robby would have complained about the force the door was opened, but he supposed the person had been waiting all day and was eager to ferry him off. They were probably some old farmer, who will grumble about the effort and state of the roads, maybe even-
That is not an old farmer. That’s a child. A child with wide eyes, and curly hair, and a look of nervousness that makes Robby’s heart jump. This guy had to be 20 at most, and that is on the assumption that he is old enough to live by himself.
“Uh, I’m Dr Robinavitch. I’m joining the local medical centre, I was told to come here for travel to my accommodation?” Stupid last minute placements and their lack of communication beforehand.
“Yes, of course.” The kid held out his hand, small and all bones, “I’m Dr Whitaker, I have just taken over that practice and I’ll give you a lift to the bungalow. Thank you for coming over to help.”
Dr Whitaker… DOCTOR?! There is no way this boy is a doctor - he isn’t old enough. Plus he looks nothing like a doctor.
Baggy brown jacket thrown over his shoulders, tassels and all, slightly stained white undershirt. Blue, torn jeans, with brown boots, handkerchiefs tucked through the belt loops and mud and grease smudged across the whole thing. Robby expects that if he peaked around the door he would see a full blown cowboy hat handing on a hook and a horse rein next to it. Never mind the southern-drawl hidden in his voice… his surprisingly soft, city sounding accent…
“Sorry, I wasn’t expecting someone so young to open the door-” Robby coughs awkwardly, taking the hand in his with a gentle shake. “Did you say Doctor?”
“Yes, I get that a lot. Technically a 4th year student, but the board decided this centre was small enough that I could join it with supervision.” The kid- doctor- ruffles his hair with a mumble. “It’s a shame Doctor Yovil had to go home on compassionate leave so soon into my placement but I am just glad they got a replacement as quick as they did.” Blue eyes widen slightly, before he continues, “Sorry, can I get you anything? A glass of water or some food? Sorry, do you want to come in?” He shuffles out of the way of the door, holding it with his arm and tilting his head in suggestion.
Confused by the sudden switch in conversation, and the whole situation, Robby just stands for a second before rejecting.
‘Sorry to be rude, but I have travelled all day, and since we will be working together tomorrow I would prefer to get settled as soon as possible.’ Had to let the kid down politely.
A small smile graces across the young face, not meeting the eyes.
‘Oh of course, I understand. I was the same when I got here. Let me grab my keys and we can put your stuff in the truck.’ Dashing off for said keys, leaves Robby a clear view of the entryway to the house. It is rather empty. No photo frames hung on the walls, or trinkets on the oak cabinet, new plain paint and there no dirt but some loose spots of hay.
It looks like someone just moved in, not inherited. Doesn’t look like anyone has ever lived here before, or that they do now besides the pale brown cowboy hat sitting on the floor by the door.
It is the curly hair that first appears around the doorframe, followed by the rest of the cowboy, swinging the keys around his finger none the less. Robby simply steps back onto the patio, watching the door close but not get locked, and notices the light in the window is now off.
Most trucks look sketchy… this one looks straight up dead. Wonky bodywork, dents scattered across, paint chipping and lights looking sad without even being on. But it unlocked when they walked up to it, and whilst the leather is worn the interior doesn’t feel like it is about to disintegrate. Plus the radio works, and engine does purr after a couple of splatters.
‘Apologies for the state of this thing. You know how it is being a student.’ Whitaker flashes a shy smile as he leans behind the seat to reverse.
Yes, Robby does remember being a student. It was tight budget meals, being excited over having a shower that ran warm and student accommodation that had heating and a working window. Yes it was long nights cramming over textbooks, and too many nights drinking and partying rather than doing research. But it wasn’t so… desolate. The bare basic accommodation rooms were still filled with decorations, trinkets, and signs of life.
Granted it wasn’t a farm house, but in a place like this those sell cheaper than chips, but people had possessions and had people to visit them. They didn’t choose to live in the middle of nowhere when trying to become the people who others needed the most.
But Robby wasn’t going to be so quick to judge, he barely knew where he was or this kids name. Who was he to comment on a truck when he rides an old Harley motorbike?
‘Don’t worry about it. All trucks look a bit busted in my eyes. So long as it runs I don’t mind.’
The radio was crackly at best, but neither of them made a move to change channel or put on a cd. So they spent a good time in silence, and thankfully the bungalow wasn’t far.
It was small and plain in the middle of dry, dead land that probably hadn’t seen water in months, but it would have to do.
‘Here are the keys, the black one is for the bungalow and the blue is for the back door to the med centre. I will come round to pick you up at 8am tomorrow. The locals don’t tend to pop over until late morning, after their morning chores so don’t worry about rushing. I can give you a tour on the way over.’ The keys sat in Whitaker’s hand, black and blue as he said, and upon taking them Robby was startled to notice how soft the other hand was.
He paid no mind to it, and saying thanks got himself and his stuff out of the truck before heading to the door.
He was right. The interior was plain, and minimal, but it was a roof, a bed and mattress, running water and small electric heaters that ran so it would work.
Robby would unpack in the morning, for now he would wash and brush his teeth. Then hit the hay, no pun intended, and try to not ponder too hard on the mystery doctor he was supposed to ensure didn’t kill a bunch of old cronies… He has worked in major trauma centres with over 20 casualties, how hard could it be?