Chapter 908 - 907: The Ultimate Single-Dog Roast

Medical Center

Beth and Jamie, the star-crossed duo, made it through Adam's hands alive—unlike the rest of their support group, who weren't so lucky. They're the only two left standing.

Fate's a funny thing sometimes.

Daily MRI scans showed their tumors shrinking bit by bit. Adam figured in about 23 days, they'd be ready for surgery to cut those suckers out.

The Fab Four took turns keeping tabs and logging data—no biggie there.

As Adam's rep kept climbing, even some "high-society" types stopped caring he was just a resident and started hunting him down for treatment.

Adam wasn't thrilled about it.

These self-proclaimed elites wanted him for every little sniffle. Some even demanded house calls!

He shut that down fast. No hesitation.

He became a doctor to save lives and extend lifespans—not to play personal medic to some snooty rich folks.

Besides, strip off the white coat, and none of them could outclass him in their precious "high society" anyway.

After a few firm rejections, the humbled ones dropped the attitude. If they had real issues, they'd check in and request him specifically.

Adam would take those cases based on how serious they were.

The best part? He's a surgeon.

Most people don't wanna go under the knife unless it's dire. And if it is dire, it's serious enough to warrant his skills.

If he were in internal medicine, they'd bug him for every tiny ache.

VIP Ward

"Dr. Duncan, how's my wife?" A middle-aged suit, all nerves, stared at Adam.

"Dr. Hibbert," Adam said, a flicker of amusement in his eyes before he got serious. "Your wife diagnosed herself with a staph infection and ordered antibiotics online…"

"Oh, God!" Dr. Hibbert groaned, incredulous. "I told her it was just a little pimple!"

"That's your opinion!" Mrs. Hibbert snapped back. "I took the antibiotics, and the pimple went away—proof I was right! You should trust me!"

"You're not a doctor!" Dr. Hibbert shot back. "Reading a few books doesn't make you an expert. And if you're so brilliant, why are we in a hospital right now?" He turned to Adam. "Dr. Duncan, what's she actually got?"

"She's got Clostridium difficile," Adam explained. "Overdoing antibiotics the wrong way wiped out all the good bacteria in her system. We need to reintroduce them."

"How do we do that?" Mrs. Hibbert asked, eyes wide with worry.

"Fecal transplant," Adam said, all pro.

"Fecal transplant?!" Mrs. Hibbert froze. "I need a poop transplant?!"

Dr. Hibbert slapped a hand over his face. 😳

"Yup," Adam said, glancing at Dr. Hibbert's familiar mug, barely holding in a laugh but keeping it cool. "We culture a tube of bacteria through your nose and transplant it into your stomach. The donor's gotta be someone exposed to the same bacteria as you daily—usually your spouse."

"Shit!" Mrs. Hibbert blurted out loud.

"Don't say that!" Dr. Hibbert barked.

Barring any surprises, he'd be the one dropping a load in a bowl for the docs.

"It's standard procedure," Adam said, stifling a grin. "Don't overthink it—health comes first! And honestly, you're lucky."

"Lucky?" the Hibberts yelped in sync.

"Yeah," Adam nodded. "Imagine if you didn't have each other. If Mrs. Hibbert were single right now, getting those good bacteria back would be a nightmare. Without them, bad bacteria take over, tanking your immune system—leaving you weak and prone to infections.

Her C. diff could turn into pseudomembranous colitis. Worst case? It could even kill her."

Hmm.

Talk about the ultimate single-dog burn. 😏

"It could kill me?!" Mrs. Hibbert's voice hit panic mode.

Dr. Hibbert's face clouded with worry, then he gritted his teeth and turned to his wife. "Admit it—admit it was just a pimple and you overreacted…"

"Seth," she pleaded, eyes begging.

"No!" Dr. Hibbert cut her off. "If you won't admit it was a pimple and you freaked out, I'm not crapping in a bowl! I'm the vice president of NYU! Soon to be president of Caltech—top ten in the country!

If you don't own up, I'm not doing something this humiliating!

No way!!

That's final—come find me when you're ready."

With that, Dr. Hibbert—future Caltech prez—stormed out, fuming.

"Just tell him it was a pimple," George blurted out.

"No!" Mrs. Hibbert thrust a finger up, fired up. "It was not just a pimple!"

Adam shot George a look—handle this—and stepped out to track down Dr. Hibbert.

"Dr. Hibbert, don't let this tiff with your wife get in the way," Adam urged. "Her health's on the line—better to treat it ASAP."

"Dr. Duncan, you don't get it," Dr. Hibbert huffed. "This isn't the first time.

Headache? She's got brain cancer.

Chest lump, weird heartbeat? Heart disease.

Little abscess? Stomach cancer.

Every tiny thing turns into the worst-case scenario in her head. Then she spirals.

I'm done.

She's gotta admit she's wrong. I bust my ass out there, taking all kinds of crap… and I come home to this nonsense?

Dr. Duncan, tell me—is this really just about a pimple?"

Adam studied Dr. Hibbert's face and frowned. "You don't look great. Been burning the midnight oil?"

"…Yeah," Dr. Hibbert said, a flash of embarrassment crossing his face. "Been swamped with the transfer stuff—too many cocktail parties."

"Congrats on the Caltech gig, by the way," Adam said with a grin. "With you at the helm, I bet it'll climb the ranks and snag that number-one spot nationwide."

"Thanks," Dr. Hibbert beamed, all pride and confidence. "I'm sure it will. A president's job is to rake in donations—and that's my specialty…"

"Uh-huh," Adam nearly lost it, barely holding back a laugh as he borrowed a future gem: "I believe in you—I know!"

Yup, this Dr. Hibbert? Future Caltech prez from Sheldon's world.

The guy who'd sacrifice his dignity for the greater good—limping to Leonard's rescue like a pro. 😆

(End of Chapter)