GS Shop (2026)

29/08/2026

“The Town Laughed When He Asked for a Wife — One Woman’s Question Silenced Everyone”

“He stood in the saloon doorway, tall as a pine, rough as bark. I need a wife by tomorrow,” he said.

The room laughed. Then a quiet woman stood up and asked. Three words that silenced everyone.

The Wyoming territory in the autumn of 1874 was a land that did not care about dignity. It stripped men of pretense the way wind strips paint from barn walls layer by layer year by year until what remained was either the raw honest wood beneath or nothing at all. Dignity was a luxury the frontier could not afford. Out here, survival came first, then shelter, then food.

Then, if a man was fortunate enough and stubborn enough, and had managed to keep all his fingers through enough winters, perhaps something resembling a life, dignity, if it arrived at all, came last. And it arrived quietly, without applause, without anyone noticing except the man who had earned it.

The town of Aspen Bend sat in a valley where the river made a slow turn eastward, and the mountains rose on three sides like walls built by something larger than human ambition. It was a small town, a general store, a livery stable, a church that doubled as a courthouse on Tuesdays, and a schoolhouse on the days when enough children could be gathered from the surrounding homesteads to justify opening the door. A saloon that served wh***ey and opinion in equal measure, both of questionable quality.

Perhaps 60 families lived within riding distance of Aspen Bend. They were cattle people and wheat people and timber people and a few who were simply surviving people clinging to the territory because going back east meant admitting failure and the frontier did not forgive failure anymore than it rewarded dignity.

Josiah Cade rode into Aspen Bend on a Thursday afternoon in October. He came down from the high country the way mountain men always came down slowly reluctantly with the look of a creature being forced from its natural habitat into territory where the rules were different and the dangers less predictable.

He was 41 years old, tall in the way that certain trees are tall, not graceful, just upward. His body had been shaped by decades of mountain work into something functional and permanent. Broad shoulders rounded slightly from years of leaning into wind and ax swings.

Hands that were more toolled than appendage, scarred and calloused and darkened at every joint. A beard that had been growing since the last time he owned a mirror, which was never hair the color of rusted iron hanging past his collar in the particular style of a man who cuted himself with a knife.

When it started getting caught in things, his face would not have been called handsome by any standard the civilized world recognized. It was a working face, a face that had been used for 41 years without any attempt at preservation.

Lines ran from his eyes to his jaw like trails worn into hillsides by years of water, finding the same path. His nose had met a tree branch at high speed sometime in the previous decade and had healed with a slight leftward suggestion.

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28/08/2026

Every Bride Left Him Within a Week The One Bride Nobody Wanted Was the Only Who Stayed Forever

Five women came to his mountain. Five women left before the week was out.

The sixth one arrived, looked at the cabin, looked at him and said, “Well, we both have work to do.”

She never left.

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The Montana territory in the year 1872 was a land that sorted people the way a river sorts stones. The smooth ones traveled downstream easily, carried by the current toward towns and comforts, and the particular ease of living among others who looked and behaved approximately the same way.

The rough ones stayed where they were, lodged in the mountain creeks, too large or too jagged or too stubbornly shaped to fit the current that carried everyone else.

Callum Breck was a rough stone.

He was 43 years old. Built the way the mountains were built, without consultation, without regard for proportion or aesthetics, simply assembled from available materials and left to stand.

He was tall enough that most doorways required negotiation, and broad enough that most chairs requested advance warning. His hands were the size of small skillets, scarred across every knuckle from decades of work that involved sharp things and hard surfaces and the fundamental disagreement between human skin and frontier survival.

His face was the kind that caused women to cross the street and children to hide behind their mothers and dogs to lower their ears and reconsider their approach. Not because he was cruel, because his face had been constructed by 43 years of mountain weather and physical incident into something that resembled a landscape more than a portrait.

A scar divided his left eyebrow. His nose had been rearranged by a horse that disagreed with being saddled. His jaw was wide and permanent and covered in a beard that had evolved beyond grooming into its own ecosystem.

But his eyes, his eyes were the betrayal.

They were brown, warm, deep brown, the color of good soil after rain. And they were kind, impossibly, unexpectedly, inconveniently kind, as if God had placed the gentlest eyes he had available into the roughest frame he could find and waited to see what would happen.

What happened was loneliness.

Callum lived on a ridge above the Flathead Valley in a cabin he had built over 16 years into something substantial. Three rooms, a stone fireplace large enough to heat the entire structure, a porch that faced the valley where the sunset performed every evening in colors that made his chest hurt. Because beauty experienced alone is just another form of pain.

He wanted a wife. He had always wanted a wife, not as an accessory or a convenience or a solution to the problem of meals and laundry. He wanted a companion, a person to sit beside on the porch while the sunset did its work, a person to talk to who would answer back in words rather than the knickering of horses who, while excellent listeners, offered limited conversational range.

The mail order correspondent service was his idea, not from desperation, from practicality. The women within riding distance of his cabin numbered approximately zero. The women within the territory who had seen his face and expressed interest in further interaction numbered exactly zero. Mathematics demanded he expand his search area.

The first bride arrived in April. Her name was Helen. She was from Ohio. She lasted 4 days. She took one look at the cabin and said it was too remote. She took one look at the mountain and said it was too high. She took one look at Callum and said nothing at all, which said everything. She was on the southbound stage by Thursday.

The second bride arrived in June: Margaret from Pennsylvania. She lasted 3 days. She said the silence at night made her feel like the world had ended and she was the only person left. She cried each evening and each morning. She asked when the next stage was leaving. The answer on the third morning was today.

The third bride arrived in August: Dorothy from Virginia. She lasted 6 days. A record. She was tougher than the first two; she could cook and clean and did not mind the mountain. What she minded was Callum, specifically the way he ate, the way he walked, the way he occupied a room so completely that there seemed to be no space remaining for another person to exist. She said she felt like she was living inside a bear. She left on a Saturday.

The fourth bride arrived in September: Catherine from New York. She lasted two days. She did not even unpack. She stood in the doorway of the cabin and cried and said she wanted to go home. And Callum drove her back to town in silence that was different from his usual silence. It was the silence of a man who was beginning to understand that the problem might not be the mountain or the cabin or the distance from town. The problem might be him.

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28/08/2026

Rejected Omega Fed a Pup Every Day — One Day, Four Black Wolves Pulled Up to Her Cabin

Frost clung to Rowena’s eyelashes as she stared at the shivering, obsidian-furred pup huddled in the snow. Cast out and left to starve by her own kind, she had nothing to give. Yet sharing her last meal with this miserable creature would soon summon the most feared predators in the realm to her doorstep.

Winter in the year of our Lord 1432 was unforgiving, a brutal expanse of endless white that threatened to swallow the Frost Peak Mountains whole. For Rowena Harding, the biting cold was a constant, mocking reminder of her absolute isolation. She lived in a dilapidated stone and timber cabin on the very fringes of the known territories, a place where civilized lycanthropes dared not tread.

Rowena was an omega, the lowest caste in the rigid hierarchy of the shape-shifting clans. But worse than being an omega, she was a reject.

Just three months prior, before the first snows fell, Lord Caspian of the Ashen Veil Pack had dragged her before the village elders. In the great hall, surrounded by the sneering faces of people she had grown up with, Caspian had severed their pack bond.

“You are a drain on our stores, Rowena,” Caspian had declared, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. “You are small, barren, and weak. The ancient laws dictate that only the strong survive the coming frost. You are no longer of Ashen Veil.”

The severing of a pack tie was a physical agony, a tearing of the soul that left Rowena vomiting on the stone floor. She was given a single sack of dried meat, an iron flint, and a threadbare wool cloak, then marched to the territory lines and told never to return.

She had found the abandoned cabin by sheer luck, spending the autumn patching the thatched roof with pine needles and mud, preparing for a lonely death. Survival became a mechanical routine. She trapped snow hares, gathered deadwood, and milked her only companion, a stubborn, shaggy nanny goat named Beatrice that she had found wandering the foothills.

It was during a grueling expedition for firewood that Rowena’s bleak existence shifted.

The wind was howling a demonic shriek through the skeletal trees when she heard a different sound. It was faint, a pathetic, reedy whimper barely audible over the gale. Rowena paused, her worn leather boots sinking deep into the snowdrifts. She gripped her wooden staff and followed the sound toward a thicket of dead bramble bushes.

There, half-buried in a snowdrift and tangled in thorny vines, was a pup.

Rowena dropped her firewood. The creature was incredibly small, its fur the color of a starless midnight. It was entirely still, save for the shallow, erratic rise and fall of its ribcage. As she dropped to her knees and brushed the snow from its coat, she realized this was no ordinary timber wolf. Its muzzle was broader, its paws disproportionately large, and the scent rolling off it, faint but distinct, smelled of petrichor and ozone. It was a lycan pup trapped in its pure animal shift.

“Where is your mother, little one?” Rowena whispered, her breath misting in the freezing air.

She scanned the treeline, terrified that a monstrous she-wolf was watching her, but there were no tracks, no glowing eyes in the dark. The pup had been abandoned or lost.

To take it in was a death sentence. Her rations were barely enough to keep herself and Beatrice alive. Feeding a growing lycan, notorious for their insatiable appetites, meant starving herself. More dangerous still, harboring a pup from an unknown pack could bring the wrath of rival warlords down upon her fragile sanctuary.

The pup let out a rattling sigh, its body growing colder.

Rowena’s heart, though battered and rejected by her own kind, broke. She could not leave it to freeze.

Unfastening her cloak, she scooped the frozen bundle of black fur into her arms, wrapping it tightly against her chest. She abandoned her firewood and hurried back to the cabin, the wind whipping at her exposed face.

Inside, Rowena laid the pup on a sheepskin rug near the stone hearth. She built a roaring fire and heated a small iron pot of Beatrice’s milk. The pup was unresponsive, its eyes squeezed shut in the lethargy of near-death. Rowena soaked a scrap of linen in the warm milk and gently pressed it to the pup’s jaws, squeezing drops over its tongue.

For hours she sat beside it, massaging its cold limbs, willing the blood to circulate.

“Come on,” she murmured, rocking the tiny beast. “You can’t give up. I know what it feels like to be left behind. But you have to fight.”

Sometime near dawn, the pup coughed. A tiny pink tongue darted out, licking the milk from its own nose. Then, slowly, its eyes fluttered open.

Rowena gasped.

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28/08/2026

Her Late Father Left Her Nothing but a Waterfall—Then She Found the Cabin Hidden Behind It

What would you do if the only thing you inherited from a lifetime of loss was a sound? Not a house, not a parcel of farmland, not even a pocket watch, but the deed to a waterfall. A ceaseless roar of water tumbling over a cliffside nobody wanted.

For 18-year-old Iris May Callaway, this wasn’t a question. It was the final baffling postscript to her father’s quiet, lonely life. The town of Fern Hollow called it a fool’s inheritance, a cruel joke played on an orphan girl with nothing to her name but a threadbare coat and a stubborn old mule.

But the truth waiting behind that curtain of mist and stone was a secret that would not only redefine the father she thought she knew, but the very meaning of what it is to own something.

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The air in Mr. Finch’s law office was thick with the smell of old paper and beeswax, a scent that clung to the heavy silence in the room. Iris May Callaway sat on a stiff horsehair chair, her hands folded in her lap, her gaze fixed on a crack in the plaster. She was 18, but the last week had carved years into the lines around her eyes.

Her father, Elias Callaway, had been buried two days prior in the small churchyard overlooking the valley, a simple pine box lowered into the rocky soil. Now came the final accounting of his life.

Her two half-brothers, grown men with hard faces and her father’s first wife’s eyes, sat opposite her. They had never offered her a kind word, and they did not start now.

Mr. Finch, a man whose face seemed permanently pinched with mild disapproval, cleared his throat and read from the will.

To Jedidiah and Caleb, he bequeathed the 40-acre homestead, the cabin, the barn, all livestock save one, the wagon, the tools, the traps—everything of practical value, everything that meant survival. A low grunt of satisfaction came from her brothers.

Then the lawyer turned his gaze to Iris May.

“And to my daughter, Iris May Callaway,” he read, his voice devoid of emotion, “I leave my sole remaining parcel, that which is known as Callaway Falls, and all the mist that rises from it. May she find in its voice the peace I never could.”

Silence.

Jedidiah snorted, a sharp, ugly sound. “A patch of wet rocks and noise. Fitting.”

Iris May didn’t flinch. She felt a cold stillness settle over her, the familiar companion of grief. She had expected nothing, and this was somehow less than that. It was poetry, and poetry couldn’t fill a stomach or mend a roof.

After signing the papers, her knuckles white around the pen, she walked out into the pale mountain light.

Her brother Caleb stopped her on the boardwalk. “You’ll be wanting to sell that foolishness,” he said, not unkindly, but with the weary impatience of a man swatting a fly. “Silas Croft might give you $10 for the timber rights, though there ain’t much timber on it.”

She looked at him, at the face so like her father’s, but missing the deep-set sadness she knew so well. “No,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “I’ll keep it.”

He just shook his head and walked away, leaving her alone on the dusty street with the deed in her pocket and her father’s old gray mule, Gideon, tethered to the hitching post.

The mule was the only other thing the will had granted her. Gideon blinked his long-lashed, knowing eyes and nudged her hand with his soft nose, as if to say, “Well, what now?”

The deed felt thin and brittle in her hands, a piece of paper that represented the sum of her worldly possessions: Callaway Falls.

She’d seen it only a handful of times as a child, a landmark on the far edge of their trapping lines. To everyone in Fern Hollow, it was just that—a landmark. A place where the creek took a sudden dive off the black ridge, a spectacle of white water and spray that was pretty to look at but utterly useless.

The land was a steep, rocky gorge, impossible to farm, treacherous to log. The water itself ran too fast and shallow for a mill. It was, as her brother had so bluntly put it, a view. And a view was a luxury for people who had a window to look out of.

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27/08/2026

She Was My Coworker for 14 Hours… Then She Showed Up at My Door at 11:40 PM

She stood on my porch at 11:40 at night with a duffel bag on one shoulder and rain in her hair.

And the first thing she said wasn’t hello.

It was, “I didn’t know where else to go.”

I had known her for exactly 14 hours.

My name is Ethan Cole.

I’m 31.

I work as a logistics coordinator for a midsize shipping company outside Denver.

And up until that Tuesday, my job had been quiet in the way jobs get quiet when you’ve stopped expecting anything to change: same desk, same commute, same lunch order from the sandwich place on 6th.

I wasn’t unhappy; I just wasn’t paying close attention to my own life anymore.

Then, a woman named Ivy Pratt walked into orientation wearing a blazer that still had the store crease in the sleeve, and everything got a little less automatic.

I noticed her before I ever spoke to her.

That’s usually how it works, whether people admit it or not.

She was standing near the coffee station in the break room, holding her badge like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to clip it on yet, glancing at the seating chart taped to the wall like it was written in a language she almost understood.

“New hires always have that look,” I said, walking past with my mug. “Half confidence, half bracing for impact. You’re in the wrong building. Marketing’s on three.”

She turned, startled, and for a second, I thought I’d actually gotten it wrong and embarrassed both of us.

Then she said, “I’m not in marketing.”

“I know,” I said. “I was kidding. Bad habit.”

“Terrible first impression,” she said. But she was smiling when she said it. The kind of smile people give when they’ve decided not to be offended yet. “I’m Ivy. Operations. Apparently, I sit somewhere on this chart, but it might be in code.”

I looked at the chart.

It was admittedly a mess.

Half the names were crossed out from people who’d already quit.

And someone had written a new hire’s name in the margin, like an afterthought.

“You’re here,” I said, pointing. “Next to me, actually.”

“Lucky me,” she said. And I couldn’t tell yet if she meant it.

That was the whole interaction.

30 seconds, maybe less.

I want to be honest about that because looking back, nothing about it should have mattered as much as it ended up mattering.

I didn’t fall for her in the break room.

I want to be clear about that, too.

But something about the way she held her badge like it was breakable stuck with me longer than it should have.

Her first day was the kind that tests people.

Our floor supervisor, a man named Russ Griggs, who’d been with the company 11 years and treated that tenure like a title, decided to make Ivy’s onboarding as unpleasant as possible without technically breaking any rules.

He assigned her to shadow three different people in three different departments with no notice given to any of them.

Handed her a laptop that hadn’t been wiped from the last employee, and then, in front of six other people during the morning huddle, asked her if she’d actually read the job description before applying because apparently she was, in his words, “moving like someone who thought this was an internship.”

Nobody laughed.

That’s the part that told me it wasn’t actually a joke.

Ivy’s face didn’t change much.

She said, “I read it. I just haven’t memorized your filing system in two hours.”

No, Russ didn’t like that.

You could see it settle into his jaw.

“Well, see how you’re doing at the end of the week,” he said and walked off like he’d won something.

I caught up with her by the printer 20 minutes later.

She was staring at a jammed paper tray like it had personally wronged her.

“Don’t let him get to you,” I said. “He does that to everyone new. It’s not about you. It feels like it was about me. It’s about him needing new people to feel small so he can feel tall. It wears off after the first month. Mostly.”

She looked at me sideways.

“Mostly?”

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27/08/2026

“I’ll Take Her!” – The Mountain Man’s Choice Shocked the Entire West

The smoke-choked saloon in Bitter Creek fell dead silent. A ruthless cattle baron had just publicly claimed the ruined daughter of a disgraced banker to settle a debt. Then, from the shadows, stepped a scarred 6’4″ trapper who hadn’t spoken to a soul in 5 years. He threw a fortune in raw gold onto the bloodstained mahogany and growled, “I’ll take her.”

It was the 14th of October, 1882 in the Wyoming territory, and the freezing winds howling off the Wind River Range seemed to carry the scent of impending doom into the town of Bitter Creek. Inside the Golden Spur Saloon, the air was thick with the stench of unwashed bodies, stale to***co, and cheap rye wh***ey. No one was drinking. Every eye in the crowded room was fixed on the makeshift auction block in the center of the floor.

Standing there, shivering in a threadbare wool coat that had once been the height of Boston fashion, was Elena Blake. Just 6 months prior, she had been the most coveted young woman in the territory, the educated daughter of Arthur Blake, the town’s principal assayer and land speculator. But Arthur had died under mysterious circumstances in a ravine near South Pass, leaving behind a staggering mountain of debt and a sudden, devastating lack of protection.

The man holding her ledger was Caleb McGra, a brutal, expansive man who controlled the largest cattle syndicate between Cheyenne and the Montana border. McGra had bought up every one of Arthur Blake’s outstanding notes. The total was $5,000, an astronomical sum that might as well have been a million to a penniless orphan. Under the harsh, often twisted territorial laws of the era, a debtor’s closest kin could be forced into a bonded labor contract to work off the balance. McGra, however, had no need for a maid. He had made his intentions violently clear. Elena was to become his property, a humiliated trophy bride to parade before the society that had once looked down on his roughneck origins.

“The debt is called,” McGra announced, his voice a gravelly boom that rattled the tin lamps hanging from the rafters. He slapped the leather-bound ledger against the bar. Henrietta “Hattie” Jenkins, the tough-as-nails saloon proprietor, glared at him from behind the taps but said nothing; even the local law, Deputy Marshall Thomas Gable, stood quietly in the corner, his eyes fixed firmly on the floorboards. McGra paid the Marshall’s salary in all but name.

“$5,000,” McGra sneered, stepping closer to the trembling woman. Elena kept her chin high, though her porcelain skin was pale as moonlight, her knuckles white as she clutched her father’s silver pocket watch. “Unless some charitable soul in this room has the capital to clear her father’s ruined name, Miss Blake comes with me to the Lazy M ranch tonight.”

A heavy, suffocating silence blanketed the room. The miners and ranchers shifted uncomfortably. They pitied the girl, but crossing Caleb McGra was a guaranteed ticket to an unmarked grave in the Badlands. McGra reached out, his thick, calloused fingers gripping Elena’s upper arm. She flinched, a quiet gasp escaping her lips, but she did not beg.

Then the saloon doors swung open with a violent crash. The icy Wyoming wind ripped through the room, extinguishing half the lamps and sending a shiver down the spine of every man present. Standing in the threshold was a towering silhouette. He stepped into the dim light, bringing with him the heavy scent of pine woods and dried blood.

It was Simon Parker. The town locals called him the “Ghost of Wind River.” He was a mountain man, a relic of the bygone fur-trapping era who lived high up in the impassable crags where even the Shoshone tread lightly. He stood 6’4″, draped in heavy wolf pelts and a scarred leather duster. A massive Sharps 50-90 buffalo r***e rested casually over his broad shoulder. His face, framed by a thick dark beard and shaggy hair, bore a jagged silver scar running from his left temple down to his jaw—a souvenir from a grizzly bear that had nearly ended his life three winters prior.

Simon hadn’t set foot in Bitter Creek in over a year. He was a man who traded his furs in silence and rode out before the sunset. He moved through the crowd, and men practically fell over themselves to get out of his way. The floorboards groaned under his heavy, hide-wrapped boots. He stopped 10 feet from the auction block, his ice-blue eyes locking onto McGra.

“Let her go,” Simon said. His voice was a deep, gravelly rumble, rusted from years of disuse, yet it commanded the room with absolute authority.

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27/08/2026

Single Dad Applied for a Janitor Job—Then the Billionaire CEO Saw His Name and Froze

The pen slipped from Victoria Hale’s hand. It struck the marble floor of the executive lobby and spun in a slow circle.

Across from her, a tired man in a faded blue shirt stood holding the hand of a little girl with one pink sneaker untied.

Victoria stared at the application on the desk: Applicant: Daniel Mercer.

For a moment, she forgot how to breathe.

“Where did you get that name?” she whispered.

Daniel looked confused. “My mother gave it to me.”

Victoria’s face drained of color because 22 years earlier, she had written that exact name on the back of a photograph she had kept hidden from the world. And the man standing before her had no idea why.

Daniel Mercer had applied for the janitor job because his rent was due in 4 days. That was the truth.

At 39, Daniel had once repaired elevators in some of the tallest buildings in Chicago. He knew how to work with his hands, how to solve problems, and how to come home exhausted without complaining. But after his wife, Anna, died 3 years earlier, everything changed.

Their daughter Lily was only five. Then Daniel had taken fewer jobs so he could be home with her. Then the elevator company downsized. One missed paycheck became two. Savings disappeared into groceries, school clothes, and hospital bills that had arrived long after Anna was gone.

Now Lily was 8, and Daniel had learned that being a good father did not stop life from sending envelopes marked final notice.

So on a bright Monday morning, he put on his cleanest shirt and walked into Hale Global Headquarters. Lily had no school because of a teacher training day, and Daniel couldn’t afford childcare.

“Stay close,” he told her.

“I always stay close.”

That was almost true.

The interview lasted less than 10 minutes. The facilities manager barely looked at Daniel’s application.

“No janitorial experience.”

“I’ve cleaned every place I’ve ever worked,” Daniel said.

The manager didn’t smile. “That’s not what I meant.”

Daniel nodded and thanked him anyway. As he turned to leave, Lily pointed toward the enormous glass lobby.

“Dad.”

He followed her finger. An elderly man in a wheelchair had knocked over his coffee. It had spread across the polished floor, dangerously close to an electrical outlet. Three employees stepped around it.

Daniel didn’t.

He grabbed a stack of napkins from a nearby cafe, unplugged the extension cord, and cleaned the spill before anyone could slip.

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27/08/2026

They Mocked Him as a Janitor… Then His True Identity Shocked the Entire Hospital!

It was 8:00 on a Monday morning at Riverside County Medical Center, one of the busiest public hospitals in the state.

The emergency department was crowded. Patients filled the waiting room. Some were sitting in wheelchairs. Others were holding paperwork, prescription bottles, and insurance cards. Doctors and nurses rushed through the halls while the front desk staff tried to keep up with the growing line.

Among the crowd was a man who looked completely out of place. He was wearing an old, faded jacket, worn-out jeans, and cheap sneakers. His hair was messy, and he carried a battered medical folder under his arm.

His name, according to the paperwork in his hand, was Michael Carter. He looked like a low-income patient who had been struggling for a long time.

But nobody in the hospital knew the truth.

His real name was Dr. Ryan Mitchell. He was a senior healthcare inspector working with the State Department of Health.

For weeks, his department had received complaints about Riverside County Medical Center. Patients claimed that low-income people were being ignored. Some said wealthy patients received faster attention. Others claimed that staff members treated homeless and uninsured patients disrespectfully.

Hospital management denied everything:

“There are no systemic problems here. The complaints are being exaggerated.”

So Ryan decided not to announce an inspection. Instead, he would experience the hospital as an ordinary poor patient. He wanted to see the truth for himself.

“Excuse me. Where are you headed?”

“I need to see a doctor.”

“Of course. Emergency department is through those doors. If you’re here for an appointment, check in at the front desk.”

“I’m not sure. I’ve been having stomach pain since last night.”

“Then check in at the ER desk.”

“Thank you.”

“Good morning, sir.”

“Morning. I’m here to see Dr. Brooks.”

“Of course. Right this way.”

“Name?”

“Michael Carter.”

“Date of birth?”

“May 24th, 1981.”

“Insurance?”

“I don’t have insurance.”

“Okay. You’ll need to fill this out.”

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