That surprised her. "Billionaires get nervous?"
"More often than you'd think."
Maya smiled.
The clinic door opened. A woman in her early fifties stepped into the waiting room: confident, professional, warm eyes. "Mr. Caldwell?" Ethan looked up. "I'm Dr. Samantha Reeves."
The second opinion had finally arrived.
An hour later, Ethan sat inside an examination room while Dr. Reeves studied his records. Silence filled the room. Occasionally, she flipped another page, then another, then another. The deeper she looked, the more serious her expression became.
Finally, she placed the file down. "What exactly made you seek another evaluation?"
Ethan glanced toward Maya. The doctor followed his gaze; her eyes softened. "You can tell me."
Ethan took a breath, then told her everything: the notebook, the photograph, the questions, the strange sensation returning to his feet, the insurance memo, the missing records—everything.
Dr. Reeves listened carefully, never interrupting, never dismissing him. When he finished, she remained quiet for several moments. Then she asked a single question: "May I see the original scans?"
Ethan nodded.
The scans appeared on a nearby screen; large images filled the room: black, white, gray—complex patterns only specialists truly understood. Dr. Reeves studied them carefully. Minutes passed, then more minutes. The silence became unbearable.
Finally, she leaned closer to the monitor, then frowned, then leaned even closer. Ethan immediately noticed. "What is it?"
The doctor didn't answer. She continued examining the images. Eventually, she pulled up newer scans for comparison. Her eyes widened slightly—a reaction so small most people would have missed it; Ethan didn't.
"What?"
The doctor slowly turned toward him. "Mr. Caldwell," her voice had changed, "there is something here I don't understand."
The room froze. Maya gripped the notebook tighter; Ethan's pulse quickened.
"What does that mean?"
Dr. Reeves hesitated, choosing her words carefully: "It means I need to run additional tests."
"Why?"
"Because some of what I'm seeing doesn't match your original diagnosis."
The air seemed to disappear from the room. Ethan stared. Three years. Three years of hopelessness, three years of believing his future was gone. Three years.
"What exactly are you saying?"
Dr. Reeves folded her hands. "I'm saying your condition may not have been as absolute as you were told."