Chapter 98: A Visit for Consultation
Wendy Rhoades was the Performance Coach at Axe Capital.
The car she was driving now, however, was anything but remarkable.
A plain four-door sedan—muted color, a little worn with age. Park it by the roadside, and no one would spare it a second glance.
That, in fact, had been Wendy's suggestion.
When Bobby Axelrod invited her to accompany him to Rayne Clinic, he had kept it simple:
"This doctor… might be the real deal."
"I need you to help me judge—whether he can actually help Donnie."
He paused briefly, then added, his tone more serious than before:
"But whether he can or not—I want to be his best friend."
So they didn't bring a driver.
They didn't take any of Bobby's fleet of cars—the kind that could turn an entire street's attention.
Instead, they drove quietly into Brooklyn.
When the car pulled up and stopped on Seventh Avenue, they stepped out.
Wendy closed the door and let her gaze sweep across the clinic's exterior and glass windows.
"Five in the afternoon," she said softly. "Right before closing—this is peak time for patients."
She glanced at Bobby.
"This is when a doctor is busiest… and the best time to observe."
That was her second suggestion—
Go in. Sit down. Wait.
Bobby nodded.
They had no intention of immediately bringing up Donnie's condition, or medical possibilities, or anything of that sort.
At this hour, a doctor didn't belong to important people.
He belonged to his patients.
If they wanted the conversation to matter—and to build goodwill from the start—
the best approach wasn't interruption.
It was patience.
Let the doctor notice that someone was waiting—
but not pressing.
Wait until the last patient left.
Wait until the clinic slowly quieted, returning to its natural rhythm.
Then—
and only then—
speak.
Like two perfectly ordinary people, carrying a patient's file, walking into a small, unremarkable clinic.
Just to ask—
whether a "miracle" might actually exist.
The outer door was open. They stepped into the entryway.
The moment Bobby crossed the threshold, his eyes instinctively swept the space—then he paused.
He suddenly realized—
the security layout here was almost identical to the one in his own home.
This wasn't the level of protection you'd expect from a neighborhood clinic.
This was the kind of system designed for people who worried… a lot about safety.
He couldn't name every technical detail, but one thing was certain:
it had cost a lot of money.
And its purpose was clear—
to make people feel secure.
At the second door, Bobby pressed the bell.
A gentle female voice came through the intercom. "Hello, are you here for treatment?"
"No," Bobby replied. "We'd like to consult about a friend. He's ill."
The door unlocked.
They stepped inside.
At the front desk stood a woman—striking in appearance, gentle in demeanor. Yet simply standing there, she made people unconsciously slow their pace.
"Do you have an appointment?" she asked.
"No," Bobby said calmly. "We just want to ask about a friend's condition. See if there are other possibilities."
Helen gave them a brief, measured look.
It was polite. Not intrusive.
And yet—
both of them could clearly feel the scrutiny.
"The doctor is still with patients," she said with a nod. "Please wait in the seating area."
They sat down in a quiet corner of the waiting area—unobtrusive, yet offering a clear view of the clinic's operation.
Bobby's first instinct wasn't to look at people.
It was to study the rhythm.
The frequency of doors opening and closing.
The cadence of the front desk—looking up, recording, explaining.
The timing between patients entering and leaving the consultation room.
To him, this was no different from reading market flow.
It wasn't fast—
but it was precise.
Patients lowered their voices as they entered.
No visible impatience in the queue.
At the front desk, explanations were delivered gently but firmly—convincing, without pressure.
The consultation room door opened.
Bobby glanced over.
A middle-aged man stepped out—still looking tired, but visibly relieved.
A few minutes later, the next patient was called in.
The timing was evenly controlled.
No rushing.
No dragging.
As if a deliberate pause—just enough for a breath—had been left between each case.
"Good pacing," Bobby murmured.
Wendy didn't respond.
Her attention was elsewhere.
Not just on the patients—but on how the doctor appeared, and disappeared.
She noticed several details:
—When the doctor stepped out, he slowed his pace instinctively
—When speaking to the front desk, there was no trace of authority or command
—When seeing patients off, he waited for them to finish speaking, instead of cutting them off
These weren't deliberate performances.
They were habits.
Behavior patterns formed over time.
Impossible to fake.
"This doctor is unusually composed," Wendy finally said, slipping into clinical language.
"And highly self-consistent."
"Either he has an extremely clear understanding of his own limits…"
She paused, as if uncertain about what she was about to say.
"…or he doesn't have any."
She checked the time.
"It's been almost forty minutes since we sat down."
"He's seen seven patients," she added. "No mistakes. No drop in efficiency."
"From their expressions, they're all satisfied."
Bobby gave a soft hum.
"In my world, seven consecutive correct decisions qualifies as top-tier risk control."
Wendy smiled faintly, offering no rebuttal.
Another patient left.
This time, an elderly woman—walking slowly.
The doctor escorted her to the door, waited until she was out of sight, then turned back inside.
Wendy drew her conclusion.
"If you're asking whether he's someone who can truly handle… problems—"
"I can't say yet."
She looked toward the consultation room.
"But at the very least, he's genuine."
"If something is within his ability, he'll either handle it—or clearly explain why he won't."
"He won't hide behind 'I can't' as an excuse."
Bobby simply nodded.
Another ten minutes passed.
The hallway finally quieted.
Helen looked up, confirming the last patient had been seen. The waiting area now held only the two of them.
Bobby stood, straightened his coat—his movements as natural as any ordinary middle-aged man finishing his workday.
"Let's go."
They approached the front desk.
"Is the doctor available now?" Bobby asked.
Helen studied them again.
The scrutiny was still there—just sharper now.
She nodded. "Please wait. I'll check with him."
She stepped into the consultation room.
Inside, Ethan was staring out the window, lost in thought.
He had already eaten three cupcakes today.
The fourth—
he had spent half the afternoon trying to negotiate with Helen for it.
And failed.
Now that the clinic had closed, he was considering just heading over to the Williamsburg diner if she still refused.
A knock came at the door.
He assumed it was Helen coming in to say goodbye.
"Come in," he said.
Helen entered, closing the door behind her.
"There are two people outside," she said. "They've been waiting for over an hour. They want to consult about a condition."
"Let them in," Ethan replied casually.
She hesitated.
"I don't think they're ordinary people."
"Especially the man… his background might be complicated."
Ethan shrugged.
"If they're here for treatment, we'll see them."
Helen sighed softly.
"Then I'll stay with you."
She added, almost under her breath,
"That woman… makes me uncomfortable."
(End of Chapter)