“God, it’s qui—”
A hand slapped over Chad Phillips’ mouth. “Don’t you dare say the Q word. That’s the kiss of death, and you know it.”
Chad just quirked a brow at Corinne, the nurse who was filling in for his usual partner in crime in the emergency room of Wilton Memorial Hospital. “Are you seriously not bored out of your mind?” So far, the most serious thing they’d dealt with was a septuagenarian with a shellfish allergy, who’d been in three times in as many months because he didn’t understand that removing the crawfish from their shells didn’t make them safe to eat. Mr. Spurling’s swelling was under control, but Chad wanted to keep him through his antihistamine nap to talk to him again about what was and was not appropriate for him to eat.
“I’m caught up on charting for the first time
