Chapter 8
The Eye of the Storm
PRESTON
We are halfway to the ICU when the scream stops us.
It isn't a pain scream. It is a terror scream.
It’s coming from the Psych Ward on the 7th Floor.
“That’s not ICU,” I say, stopping on the landing.
“It’s Psych,” Luke says. “Dr. Evans is the physician on call. He’s… aggressive.”
We look at each other. Max said ICU. But the scream comes again.
“Detour?” I ask.
“Detour,” Luke confirms.
We burst onto the seventh floor. The atmosphere here is different. Downstairs, it was chaotic noise. Here, it’s a chaotic vibration. The air feels tight, like a rubber band stretched to its limit.
We round the corner to Room 704.
A crowd has gathered. Two security guards are standing with their hands on their belts, looking tense. A nurse is pleading with someone inside.
“Get the restraints,” Dr. Evans barks. He is a man whose bedside manner rivals a brick wall. “He’s a danger to himself. We need to sedate him. Now.”
“What’s going on?” Luke asks, stepping into the fray.
“Patient in 704,” Evans snaps, not looking at us. “Elias Winthrop. Twenty-two. Came in for anxiety, but the storm triggered a psychotic break. He’s barricaded himself behind an overturned bed. He thinks the water is rising inside the room.”
“So you’re going to tackle him?” I ask, stepping up beside Luke.
Evans sneers at me. “He’s violent, York. Unless you want to go in there and get hit with a bedpan, stay back.”
I look through the small observation window.
The kid inside isn't "violent." He’s terrified. He’s crouched in the corner, eyes wide and unseeing, clutching a pillow like a shield. He’s shaking so hard I can see it from here.
“Don’t go in there with security,” I say, my voice dropping. “If you rush him with guards in the dark, he’s going to snap. You’ll have to hurt him to subdue him.”
“We don’t have time for therapy!” Evans yells over a particularly loud thunderclap. “Move!”
He signals the guards.
“Wait.” I step in front of the door.
Evans stops. “Excuse me?”
“Give me five minutes,” I say. I look at Luke. I’m not asking Evans; I’m asking the Chief Resident. “Luke. Five minutes. If I can’t talk him down, you can send in the cavalry.”
Luke looks at Evans, then at the guards, and finally at me. He sees the sweat dripping down my face, the exhaustion in my eyes.
“Three minutes,” Luke says. He turns to Evans. “Stand down for three minutes. That’s an order.”
Evans huffs. “On your head, Silva.”
I unlock the door.
I slip inside and close it behind me. The room is dark, lit only by the strobe-light flashes of lightning outside.
“Get away!” Elias screams, hurling a plastic water pitcher. It smacks against the wall inches from my head. “The water’s coming in! The vents! It’s in the vents!”
“It’s not water,” I say calmly, not moving. I don't use my doctor voice. I use my negotiating with a drunk board member voice. Low. Even. Bored, but safe. “It’s just noise, Elias. Just wind.”
“You’re lying! We’re trapped! We’re going to drown!”
“We aren’t going to drown,” I say, taking a slow step forward. “Do you know who built this building?”
Elias blinks. “What?”
“My father,” I lie. “Alistair York. He’s a terrible human being, honestly. Very cheap. But he has a massive ego. He built this place with reinforced steel and concrete thick enough to stop a tank because he wanted his name on something that would last forever.”
I take another step. Elias lowers the pillow slightly.
“He’s too vain to let his building leak, Elias,” I continue, leaning casually against the wall. “If a single drop of water got in here, he’d sue the rain. He’d sue the clouds.”
Elias lets out a shaky, hysterical sound that might be a laugh. “He’d sue the rain?”
“Class action lawsuit against the Atlantic Ocean,” I nod. “So you’re safe. Not because of luck, but because of my father’s massive narcissism. The walls are holding. I promise.”
I hold out my hand. “I’m Preston. I’m stuck here too. And I’m terrified of thunder. It’s embarrassing.”
Elias stares at me. “You’re scared?”
“Petrified,” I admit. “But I’m pretending I’m not so the guy outside—Dr. Evans—doesn’t make fun of me. Want to help me fake it?”
Elias looks at the door, then at me. Slowly, his shoulders drop. He uncurls from the corner.
“Okay,” he whispers.
“Good man.”
I walk over, help him stand up, and guide him away from the overturned bed. When I open the door two minutes later, Elias is sitting on the mattress, drinking water.
I step out into the hallway.
“He’s calm,” I tell Evans, whose jaw is practically on the floor. “He needs dry sheets and maybe a sedative for sleep, but no restraints.”
I push past the stunned security guards and grab Luke’s arm. “Get me out of here before my knees give out.”
We walk briskly down the hall, turning a corner into a quiet alcove, and Luke shoves me into a supply closet.
The door clicks shut, plunging us into total darkness.
For a second, the only sound is our breathing—heavy, ragged. The air in here smells like rubbing alcohol and cotton gauze.
I slide down the wall until I hit the floor, burying my face in my hands. The adrenaline dump hits me like a freight train. My hands are shaking.
“York,” Luke’s voice is soft. I feel him slide down next to me.
“I hate this,” I mumble into my palms. “I hate storms. I hate feelings. I want a martini and a climate-controlled environment.”
“You were amazing.”
I lift my head. My eyes have adjusted to the gloom enough to see Luke’s profile. He’s looking at me, and the expression on his face stops my heart dead in its chest.
He looks… impressed. No, more than that. He looks proud.
“I just lied to him,” I deflect. “I told him my dad would sue the ocean.”
“You met him where he was,” Luke corrects. He shifts, his knee bumping mine. “Evans wanted to fight the psychosis. You joined it and steered it. That’s not medicine, Preston. That’s… that’s a gift.”
He reaches out and touches my arm. His hand is warm, his thumb brushing against the damp fabric of my sleeve. The touch burns.
“You’re good at this,” he says, his voice dropping an octave. “I know you’re doing this for spite, or whatever you say, but… you belong here.”
I stare at him. The heat in the closet is stifling, but I’m shivering.
“Luke,” I breathe.
He leans in. Just an inch. But in the dark, it feels like a mile. The air between us charges with static electricity that has nothing to do with the storm. I can smell him—rain, soap, and something uniquely Luke.
I want to kiss him. I want to kiss him so bad it makes my teeth ache. I lean forward, closing the gap, my eyes fluttering shut.
BAM!
The door flies open, flooding the closet with blinding emergency light.
“HA!”
We scramble apart like teenagers caught making out in a basement. I smack my head against a shelf of saline bags. Luke tries to stand up and trips over a mop bucket.
Dr. Jackson O'Connell stands in the doorway, holding a flashlight under his chin like he’s telling a ghost story. He’s grinning like a maniac.
“I knew it!” Jax crows. “I told Max! I said, ‘check the supply closets, that’s where the sexual tension goes to die!’”
“Jax!” Luke scrambles to his feet, looking mortified. “We were… debriefing!”
“Debriefing,” Jax nods solemnly. “Is that what the kids call it now? Preston, you’re bleeding.”
I touch my forehead. Sure enough, I bumped the shelf hard. “I’m fine. Just a flesh wound.”
“Max needs you two in Trauma,” Jax says, dropping the flashlight beam. “Generator 2 is sputtering. We’re expecting incoming from the subway flooding. Fix your hair, fix your faces, and get downstairs.”
He turns to leave, then pauses.
“And for the record,” Jax winks, “Room 402 has a lock on the inside. Amateurs.”
He leaves, whistling a cheerful tune that is completely at odds with the hurricane outside.
I look at Luke. Luke looks at me. His face is a furious shade of red, but he’s fighting a smile.
“I hate your family,” Luke sighs, rubbing his face.
“Technically,” I say, holding my head, “he’s an O'Connell. He's just dating into the chaos.”
“I hate them all,” Luke corrects, opening the door. “But mostly Jax. Come on, York. Let’s go save lives.”
He holds the door for me. And as I pass him, he doesn't pull his hand away when our fingers brush.