Chapter 3 #2
My father, Alistair York, loves two things: money, and having his name on buildings. Because of this, the "York Wing" has a special discretionary fund for "VIP Patient Care." It is usually reserved for board members or politicians when they need discretion.
I sit down at the terminal. I crack my knuckles.
I type in my username. P_York. Password: RichBoyzDontCry1 (I made it when I was twelve. Don't judge me).
Access Granted.
I pull up Mrs. Gable’s file.
Current Status: Standard Ward. Insurance: Denied.
I highlight the field. I hit delete.
New Status: York Foundation Priority. Billing Code: 007-GOLD-V Notes: Patient is a close personal friend of the Foundation. Expedite all testing. Upgrade to Platinum Suite.
I hit Enter.
The screen flashes green. Processing.
I lean back in the chair.
"Dr. York?"
I jump. Foster is standing there, holding a clipboard.
"Are you... hacking the hospital?" she whispers.
"I am correcting the universe, Foster," I say, standing up. "Now, go get a wheelchair. Mrs. Gable is moving to the West Wing. And tell Radiology she’s coming down in twenty minutes. If they ask questions, tell them to call my father."
Foster’s eyes go wide. "But... Dr. Silva said—"
"Dr. Silva is the Chief Resident," I say, patting her shoulder. "I am a York. In this building, that beats a Chief Resident. Go."
She runs.
I check my watch. 10:45 AM.
It will take the system about fifteen minutes to flag the charge. It will take Alistair another five to get the alert on his phone. It will take him two minutes to turn purple, and one minute to dial the hospital.
Showtime.
I am leaning against the nurses' station, eating the lint-covered strawberry candy (I unwrapped it, obviously), when the phone rings.
It isn't the normal ring. It is the red phone. The external line reserved for "Donor Relations" and emergencies.
Dr. Silva is down the hall, looking confused as he watches Foster wheel Mrs. Gable toward the elevators. He starts walking back toward the desk, a frown forming on his face.
The phone rings again.
Mama Ortiz is sitting at the desk, eating a tamale. She looks at the ringing phone. She looks at me.
"You did something," she says. It isn't a question.
"I adjusted some paperwork," I say innocently.
She narrows her eyes. She picks up the phone.
"Surgical Floor, Nurse Ortiz speaking."
I can hear the voice on the other end from three feet away. It is loud. It is angry. It is Alistair.
"WHO IS THIS? I WANT TO SPEAK TO THE ADMINISTRATOR! I JUST RECEIVED AN ALERT FOR A FIFTY-THOUSAND DOLLAR CHARGE TO MY DISCRETIONARY FUND! FOR A 'MRS. GABLE'? I DON'T KNOW A MRS. GABLE! IS SHE A SENATOR? IS SHE A DIPLOMAT?"
Mama Ortiz doesn't flinch. She chews her tamale slowly.
"Mr. York," she says. Her voice is calm, heavy, and dangerous. "This is Rosa."
Silence.
Dead silence on the line.
Then, a much quieter, trembling voice. "Rosa? Rosa Ortiz?"
"That’s right," she says. "Why are you screaming at me, Alistair? My ear is ringing. Do you want me to get a migraine? You know I get cranky when I have a migraine."
"No! No, Rosa, I—I didn't know it was you. I was just... there’s been a charge. A mistake. Someone is looting the Foundation fund!"
"Mrs. Gable," Rosa says, looking at me. I give her a thumbs up. "Yes. She is a VIP. Very important."
"She is? Who is she?"
"She is a nice lady who gave my intern a candy," Rosa says. "And she needs a scan. Unless you want to come down here and tell her she can't have it? I think I have an open slot in my schedule to discuss it with you. I can bring my forceps."
"No!" Alistair sounds terrified. "No, that won't be necessary. If... if you say she’s a VIP, Rosa, then she’s a VIP. Just... keep the receipt?"
"Goodbye, Alistair. Drink some water. You sound congested."
She hangs up.
She looks at me. A slow, terrifying grin spreads across her face.
"You got balls, Princess," she says. "Using Daddy’s credit card."
"It’s not theft if it’s family," I say.
"Dr. York!"
Lucas storms up to the desk. He looks frantic.
"Where is Mrs. Gable going? Foster just took her to the Platinum Wing! And Radiology just called—they’re prepping the contrast machine. They said the order came from the Board."
He slams his hands on the desk. He looks at me. He connects the dots. The hair. The shoes. The smirk.
"You," he breathes.
"She needed the scan," I say, shrugging. "I expedited the process."
"You... you can't just..." He sputters. "Do you have any idea how much trouble you could be in? That is fraud! That is nepotism! That is..."
"Effective?" I suggest.
He stares at me. His chest is heaving. He looks furious. But under the fury, there is something else. Relief.
Mrs. Gable is going to live.
He runs a hand down his face. He lets out a long, shaky breath.
"You are a nightmare," he says softly. "You are an entitled, reckless, arrogant nightmare."
"And you," I say, leaning closer, "are welcome."
He looks at me. For a second, the air between us feels thick. Charged.
Then Mama Ortiz crumples up her foil wrapper.
"Kiss him or hit him, Lucas," she says without looking up. "But make a choice, you’re blocking my view of the monitor."
Lucas jumps back like he’s been scalded. His ears turn a delightful shade of pink.
"I—I have to go check on the patient," he stammers. "To make sure Foster doesn't crash the wheelchair into a sconce."
He turns and marches away. But before he turns the corner, he looks back. Just for a second.
He isn't scowling. He looks... confused.
"He likes you," Mama Ortiz observes, picking up her pen.
"He hates me," I correct.
"Thin line, baby," she says. "Thin line. Now go answer the call light in 4. And York?"
"Yes, Mama?"
"Next time you use the magic credit card? Get me a new chair. This one squeaks."
I grin.
"Consider it done."
Later That Night
The Platinum Suite is ridiculous. It has velvet curtains, a view of Central Park, and a mini-fridge stocked with sparkling cider.
Mrs. Gable is sleeping soundly. The scan was clear—well, clear of confusion. It is a tumor, but it’s operable. Small. Caught just in time.
I am standing in the doorway, watching the vitals monitor, when I sense a presence next to me.
Lucas is leaning against the doorframe. He has changed out of his dirty scrubs into clean ones. He looks tired, but the desperate edge is gone.
"You know," he says quietly, keeping his voice low so he doesn't wake her. "You can't save everyone with money, York."
"I know," I say, looking at Mrs. Gable. "But I can save her."
"Why?" he asks. "Why did you do it? You don't even know her."
I look at him. I could tell him the truth—that I did it because seeing him stressed made my chest hurt. That I did it because I wanted to see if I could.
"She gave me a candy," I say simply. "It was strawberry."
Lucas shakes his head. A small, reluctant smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"You’re ridiculous."
"I’m expensive," I correct. "There's a difference."
"Jean-Pierre called," Lucas says.
"Who?"
"The chef. For the Platinum Wing. He wanted to know if the patient had any dietary restrictions for her... checks notes... lobster bisque."
I laugh. "Standard procedure."
Lucas looks at me. His dark eyes search mine. For the first time since I arrived, he isn't looking at the shoes. He isn't looking at the hair. He’s looking at me.
"Good work, York," he says softly. "The scan confirmed it. We caught it early."
He pauses, then adds, sounding almost grudging, "I didn't think you would stick your neck out like that. Most guys in your shoes wouldn't have risked it."
It is a crumb. A tiny, microscopic crumb of validation.
I want to frame it.
"Does this mean I don't have to do disimpactions tomorrow?" I ask hopefully.
The moment breaks. Lucas rolls his eyes, pushing off the doorframe.
"Dream on, Princess. I have a guy coming in at 8 AM who sat on a garden gnome. You’re up. But, you can call me Luke now. You’ve earned that at least.”
He walks away down the hall.
I watch him go.
I take the strawberry candy wrapper out of my pocket and flick it into the trash.
Worth it.