Chapter 15 Withdrawal #2
The Boardroom is located on the top floor of the hospital. It has floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.
The table is mahogany. The water is sparkling. The silence is expensive.
Alistair York sits at the head of the table. He is the Chairman, the sun around which this entire solar system revolves. He looks triumphant, already sipping a mimosa.
To his right sits Maxwell. Max is wearing his white coat over a dress shirt, looking like he ran up here between surgeries.
He is an Associate Member—a courtesy title, mostly, though his opinion holds weight.
But in this room, he is not the Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery. He is just Alistair’s son.
I am sitting at the far end of the table.
The other Board members—mostly ancient men in pinstripes—are looking at me with nodding approval.
“And so,” Alistair booms, raising his glass. “With the resignation of Harrison Vane, we move to confirm the appointment of Preston York to the Board of Directors. It is a new era! An era of aggressive expansion! Preston has already shown an aptitude for… let’s call it ‘hostile negotiation.’”
A ripple of polite laughter goes around the table.
Max looks at me. He doesn't look triumphant. He looks… tired. He gives me a small, tight smile.
“Preston?” Alistair prompts. “The signature, my boy. We have a press release scheduled for noon.”
The room turns to me.
This is it. The Golden Parachute. The easy life.
I open the folder. I pick up the Montblanc pen.
Sign it, a voice in my head says. Sign it and be safe.
I touch the pen to the paper.
And then, the sirens start.
It isn't just one siren. It is a chorus. A wailing, screaming cacophony rising from the streets below, piercing through the soundproof glass of the tower.
Max’s head snaps up. The polite boardroom mask vanishes instantly. He isn't the Associate Member anymore; he is the Surgeon.
“That’s a multi-unit response,” Max murmurs, his eyes locking onto the window.
Alistair frowns, annoyed by the noise. “Can someone close the blinds?”
I stand up. I walk to the window.
Below us, on the Queensboro Bridge, there is chaos. Smoke is billowing black and thick. A bus is hanging precariously off the edge of the guardrail. Several cars are crushed beneath a jackknifed semi-truck.
My phone buzzes. Max’s pager goes off at the same time. The sound is shrill and violent in the quiet room.
Emergency Alert: MASS CASUALTY INCIDENT. QUEENSBORO brIDGE. ALL HANDS ON DECK. LEVEL 1 TRAUMA ACTIVATION.
I look at the alert.
Level 1.
That means everyone. That means the ER is about to become a war zone. That means Luke is down there, right now, getting ready to catch the wave.
“Terrible,” one of the Board members mutters, checking his Rolex. “Traffic will be a nightmare. I’ll never make my tee time at the club.”
“We should send a statement,” another suggests, tapping his phone. “Thoughts and prayers. It plays well on social media. Alistair, can we get the PR team on a draft? We need to get ahead of the news cycle.”
“Yes, yes,” Alistair says, waving a hand distractedly. “We’ll handle the optics. Preston, quickly, sign the paper so we can wrap this up. We can’t have the meeting drag on; the helicopters make such a racket.”
I freeze.
Optics. Tee times. Helicopters.
I look at Max.
Max isn't looking at the papers. He is staring at his pager, his knuckles white. He is vibrating with the need to go. He knows exactly what is happening in the trauma bay right now. He wants to be there. But he is trapped at the right hand of the Chairman, bound by protocol and expectation.
He looks at me.
Our eyes meet.
He doesn't tell me to sit down. He doesn't tell me to sign. He looks at the pen in my hand, and then he looks at the door.
There is no judgment in his eyes. Only a silent, desperate question.
Are you one of them? Or are you one of us?
I look back at Alistair.
“Sign it, son,” Alistair urges, checking his own watch. “It’s just a bus crash. The staff will handle it. That’s what we pay them for.”
That’s what we pay them for.
The words hit me like a physical slap. They think they are paying for a service. They don't know they are paying for pieces of our souls.
“No,” I say.
Alistair blinks. “Excuse me?”
I drop the Montblanc pen. It hits the mahogany table with a sharp clack.
“I’m not signing it,” I say.
I reach up and undo my tie. I pull it off and drop it on top of the folder.
“Preston, what are you doing?” Alistair demands, his face reddening. “The vote is a formality! You can’t back out now!”
“Cancel the vote,” I say, stripping off my suit jacket. “I resign from the Foundation. I resign from the Board.”
“You can’t just leave!” Alistair shouts, standing up. “We have an agenda! This is a crisis meeting now! We have to manage the fallout!”
“You’re right,” I say, unbuttoning my collar and rolling up my sleeves. “It is a crisis. There are people dying on that bridge. And I’m a doctor.”
I look at Max.
“Max,” I say. “I’m going downstairs.”
Max lets out a breath he’s been holding. A slow, proud grin breaks through his stoic mask. He nods once.
“Go,” Max orders. “Triage is going to be a nightmare. They need hands.”
“Understood, Chief.”
“Preston!” Alistair yells, pointing a trembling finger at the door. “If you walk out that door, you are walking away from everything! You are walking away from the legacy!”
I pause at the door. I look back at the plush carpet, the sparkling water, and the men who worry about traffic while the city burns.
“No, Father,” I say. “I’m walking toward it.”
I kick the door open.
I run for the stairs. The elevator is too slow.
I have a shift to get to.