Chapter 4
The Curation of Chaos
PRESTON
Day Five
There are things they do not teach you in medical school. They teach you the Krebs cycle. They teach you the anatomy of the brachial plexus.
They do not teach you that drawing blood from a human being requires the dexterity of a bomb disposal expert and the emotional stability of a saint.
I have neither.
I am standing in Cubicle 3, holding a butterfly needle. The patient, Mr. Higgs, has veins that are apparently made of gossamer and shy away from light.
“Just stick it in, Doc,” Mr. Higgs grunts. “I ain’t got all day.”
“We are not sticking it in,” I say, sweating through my Egyptian cotton scrubs. “We are navigating a complex vascular landscape. Your veins are… elusive, Mr. Higgs. They are playing hard to get.”
I aim. I lunge. I miss.
Mr. Higgs yelps.
“Okay,” I say, dropping the needle into the sharps bin. “That was a warning shot. Standard procedure.”
The curtain rips open.
Dr. Lucas Silva stands there. He looks like a thundercloud in blue scrubs.
“York,” he says. “Why is the patient screaming?”
“He isn’t screaming,” I correct. “He is vocalizing his surprise. It’s a sign of a robust respiratory system.”
Luke steps into the cubicle. He takes one look at my shaking hands, the three failed tourniquets on the tray, and the terrified look in Mr. Higgs' eyes.
“Step away from the patient,” Luke orders.
I step back. Gladly.
Luke takes a fresh needle. He doesn't even look like he’s trying. He touches Mr. Higgs' arm, finds the vein by pure instinct, and slides the needle in. Flash of blood. Done.
“That’s how you do it,” Luke says, taping the gauze down. “Apologize to Mr. Higgs.”
“I’m sorry your veins were hiding from my needle, Mr. Higgs,” I say charmingly.
“Apologize for stabbing him, York.”
“Sorry for the stabbing. It won’t happen again.”
Luke drags me out of the cubicle by the back of my scrub top. He marches me to the supply room door—a door I have learned to fear.
“You are useless with a needle,” Luke states.
“I have fine motor skills!” I protest. “I can tie a Windsor knot in under ten seconds. I can tell the difference between 120-wool and 150-wool by touch!”
“Can you find a basilic vein?”
“...No.”
“Then you are useless.” Luke crosses his arms. His biceps bulge under the sleeves of his scrubs. It is annoying how distracting that is.
“Since you can’t be trusted with sharp objects today,” Luke says, a cruel glint entering his eyes, “you are going on Scut Duty.”
“Scut Duty?” I ask. “Is that… administrative?”
“Open the door, York.”
I open the door to the Central Supply Closet.
I gasp.
It looks like a bomb went off inside a pharmacy. Boxes of gauze are ripped open. Saline bags are piled in precarious towers. Catheters are mixed with tongue depressors. It is a kaleidoscope of medical anarchy.
“This,” I whisper, clutching my pearls (metaphorically). “This is a hostile work environment. It violates every principle of Feng Shui.”
“It’s the night shift,” Luke says. “They ravage it. Your job is to fix it.”
“Fix it?”
“Organize it. Inventory it. If I come back in two hours and I can’t find a 14-gauge angiocath in three seconds, you are doing rectal exams for a month.”
He turns to leave.
“Wait!” I call out. “This is hazing! This is a misuse of my talents! I am a visionary, Luke! I am a healer!”
“You’re an intern who can’t draw blood,” Luke calls back over his shoulder. “Have fun with the bedpans, Princess.”
The door clicks shut.
I am alone with the chaos.
I look at the pile of tangled IV tubing. I look at the boxes of gloves that are stacked by size but not by texture.
A slow, calm feeling washes over me.
Luke thinks this is a punishment. He thinks this is hell.
He doesn't know that before I went to medical school, I spent a summer reorganizing my mother’s walk-in closet because the colour gradient of her cashmere was “spiritually aggressive.”
I crack my knuckles. I roll up my sleeves.
“Okay,” I whisper to the shelves. “Let’s give you a makeover.”
LUKE
Two Hours Later
I shouldn't enjoy tormenting the interns. It’s unprofessional. It’s petty.
But sending Preston York into the Supply Closet of Doom was the highlight of my week.
That closet breaks people. Last month, Levine went in there to find a Foley catheter and we found him twenty minutes later crying softly into a box of surgical masks. It is a black hole of entropy.
I finish my rounds, sign off on three discharges, and grab a coffee (from the cafeteria, because I refuse to use York’s bribe-machine upstairs).
I walk toward the supply closet. I expect to find York sitting on the floor, texting his father to buy him a new hospital.
I open the door.
I stop.
My coffee cup stops halfway to my mouth.
The closet is not clean. The closet is curated.
The metal shelving units have been wiped down. The boxes aren't just stacked; they are aligned with geometric precision.
But it gets worse.
The IV fluids are arranged by colour of the label—clear, blue, red—creating a soothing gradient effect. The bandages are separated not just by size, but by thread count.
There are handwritten labels. Calligraphy. On the shelf edges.
“Trauma Essentials: For the Dramatic Exit.” “Fluids: Hydrate or Diedrate.” “Sharps: Do Not Touch Without Dr. Silva.”
And in the centre of the room, sitting on a perfectly organized stack of chux pads, is Preston York.
He is holding a clipboard. He looks serene. He looks like he just finished a yoga retreat.
“You’re back,” he says, not looking up. “You’re early. I was just debating the aesthetic merit of the emesis basins. Kidney-shaped is so… mid-century modern, don't you think?”
I stare at the shelves. I stare at him.
“What did you do?” I ask. “Did you hire someone? Did you call a team?”
“Please,” Preston scoffs. “I wouldn't trust a contractor with this. This required a vision.”
He stands up. He walks over to the gauze section.
“I noticed we were low on the premium Kerlix rolls,” he says, tapping a label. “So I called Supply Chain. I spoke to a lovely woman named Barb. I told her that if she sent up five extra cases, I would send her a voucher for a spa day at the Mandarin Oriental.”
He points to a massive stack of high-quality gauze in the corner.
“Barb delivered.”
I walk over to the shelf. I pull out a box of 14-gauge angiocaths. It slides out smoothly. It is exactly where it should be.
“This is…” I struggle for the word.
“It’s a boutique experience,” Preston supplies. “I call it ‘The Silva Collection.’ Do you like it?”
I look at him. He’s smirking. He’s waiting for me to yell at him for wasting time, or for bribing Barb, or for the calligraphy.
But I can’t. Because for the first time in three years, I can actually see the back of the closet.
“The labels,” I say, pointing to “Sharps: Do Not Touch Without Dr. Silva.”
“A safety precaution,” Preston says innocently. “And a branding opportunity. You have a very strong brand, Luke. Scowls and competence. I wanted to reflect that.”
I fight the urge to smile. I fight it hard.
“You bribed Barb with a spa day?”
“It was a Groupon,” he lies. I know it wasn't a Groupon. “And she deserves it. Supply Chain is a thankless job.”
I sigh. I look at the pristine rows of saline.
“It’s good,” I admit, grudgingly. “It’s… efficient.”
Preston beams. It’s a blinding, thousand-watt smile that lights up the dim closet.
“High praise from the Chief,” he says. “Does this mean I graduate from Scut Duty?”
“No,” I say, turning to leave to hide the fact that I am definitely not annoyed anymore. “It means you’re in charge of the supply closet permanently. Congratulations, Dr. York. You’ve been promoted to Quartermaster.”
Preston’s smile doesn't falter.
“I accept,” he says. “But I’m ordering scented shelf liners. Lavender. For the stress.”
I walk out the door.
“Don't push it, York!”
PRESTON
Later that Afternoon
I am riding high on my victory in the supply closet. I have conquered chaos. I have tamed the beast.
I am walking down the hall, whistling, when I see him.
Gary, the Phlebotomist.
Gary is a man of few words and many tattoos. He is the Michelangelo of veins. He can hit a vein in a stone.
I corner him near the vending machine.
“Gary,” I say.
Gary looks at me. He looks at my shoes. “Dr. York.”
“I have a proposition,” I say. “I need to learn. Silva thinks I have hands made of ham. I need to have hands made of… whatever you have hands made of. Magic.”
Gary shrugs. “Practice, Doc. Just stick ‘em.”
“I can’t just ‘stick them,’” I whisper. “They scream. It haunts me.”
I reach into my pocket. I pull out an envelope.
“Gary,” I say. “Do you like basketball?”
Gary’s eyes flick to the envelope. “Knicks?”
“Courtside,” I say. “Next Friday. Versus the Celtics. You can hear the players swearing. It’s very educational.”
Gary stops chewing his gum.
“What do you want?”
“I want you to teach me,” I say. “After hours. In the lab. I want you to teach me the angle. The flick. The… vibe.”
Gary looks at the envelope. He looks at me.
“Meet me in the basement lab at 8:00,” Gary says. “Bring your own tourniquet.”
He takes the envelope. He disappears down the hall.
I smile.
Luke thinks I’m just a decorator. He thinks I’m afraid of the work.
He’s wrong.
I’m going to master the needle. I’m going to master the medicine.
I’m just going to do it the York way.
With bribery, style, and excellent seats.