For the last 2 hours, Matt has been poring over two drawings of a bed he is going to make with his Pa this winter. Rulers and mechanical pencils have been dexterously alternated from hand to hand, and the pile of eraser crumbs covers our coffee table like a first grader was taking a spelling test. His drawings are so precise, so meticulous I am starting to wonder if his true calling was perhaps furniture design instead of medicine.
He calls me over to stand next to the measuring tape to see how high the bed is going to be. Holding the measuring tape up to my hip, he palpates the top where the tape hits to use as a comparison to our current bed.
"Perfect. Right at the greater trochanter."
Nope. Medicine, it is.