The waiting room smelled like antiseptic and someone's microwaved lunch. Harper Romero shifted in the uncomfortable chair, fingers drumming against their thigh in the rhythm of a familiar electrical pattern—a nervous habit from forty-two years of work. The afternoon sun cut through the venetian blinds in geometric strips, and somewhere down the hallway, a child cried while a parent tried to soothe them.

The call had come three days ago. Dr. Patel's nurse, speaking in that careful tone that meant something was wrong: "We'd like you to come in for a follow-up. Some unusual markers in your bloodwork."

Unusual markers. Harper had been feeling fine. A little tired maybe, but cruise season always left electricians exhausted. Three major ships in port meant sixteen-hour days rewiring outdated systems, testing backup generators, troubleshooting the kind of electrical nightmares that only maritime contractors encountered. The money was good—excellent, actually. Harper had already signed contracts through the end of the season.

The door to the inner office opened. "Harper?"

Dr. Patel was younger than Harper expected for someone delivering bad news. She had kind eyes, the type that crinkled at the corners even when her mouth wasn't smiling. She gestured Harper into her office, and that gesture alone—the slowness of it, the deliberateness—told Harper everything they needed to know.

This was not going to be good news.

The doctor settled into her chair and folded her hands on the desk. A file lay open in front of her, Harper's file, full of test results and numbers that probably meant something terrible.

"Your bloodwork came back with some concerning results," Dr. Patel began. "We ran additional tests to confirm. Harper, I'm going to be direct with you because I think that's what you'd prefer."

Harper nodded, not trusting their voice.

"You have a rare metabolic disorder. It's autoimmune in nature, which means your body is attacking its own tissues. The progression can be rapid, and without intervention, it will significantly impact your quality of life."

The words floated in the air between them like something toxic, something that had to be handled carefully or it might explode.

"What does that mean?" Harper heard themselves ask. "Intervention how?"

Dr. Patel leaned forward slightly. "We need to start you on an aggressive treatment plan immediately. That includes weight loss surgery—bariatric intervention—followed by a strict recovery protocol. And Harper, I need to be clear about something else."

Harper waited.

"You're going to need to go on a shelter-in-place order during recovery. No work. No unnecessary contact. Your immune system is compromised, and the surgery itself carries risks we need to minimize."

The words barely registered. No work. During cruise season. During the most lucrative contracts of the year.