Chapter 1 Chloe #2
Too bad. She can have her little power trip. I’m here to work, learn, and not get steamrolled in the process. Let her swing. I won’t flinch.
We move on to the next patient, and it’s the same routine. Dr. Kingston walks us through the case—eighteen-year-old woman, drug overdose. Although, I’d hardly call her an adult. She’s tiny, all bones and hospital gown, with two terrified parents clinging to each other.
Zac draws the curtain closed behind us after we step out. “Any questions so far?”
Before anyone can answer, Zac’s pager goes off. He checks it, brows knitting. “Helipad trauma is now five minutes away.”
The way he says it, there’s no doubt he’s already a dozen steps ahead.
“Kensington, Ellis—you’re with me.”
The three of them disappear down the hallway without another word.
“Everyone else—start clearing beds,” Dr. Clarke instructs, turning to us. “Coordinate with Olivia. Present your cases to senior doctors only before ordering any tests or treatment. Clear?”
We all nod in sync.
Sienna lets out a dramatic groan. “Ugh. I wanted that one. Chopper trauma’s where the action is.”
Dr. Clarke gives her a sharp look. “Let’s not be eager about human suffering, Dr. Rhodes. You’ll get your chance.”
And just like that, she stalks off, leaving us to sink or swim, no lifeline in sight.
“I refuse to be the IV bitch,” Sienna spits under her breath.
I smirk. “Could be worse. You could be the tea-and-toast doctor.”
She fake shudders. “Don’t even joke about that.”
Our conversation fades as we approach the central station.
“Hey Olivia,” I say. “Do you have the list of near-discharges?”
“Yep.” She hands each of us a couple of charts. “Labs are back on these. If they’re clear, they can go. The rest are quick-fix cases. Come on, I’ll show you the front.”
We follow her through double doors and… Holy shit.
The room is bursting at the seams. Every chair is taken. People line the walls. Some are sitting on the floor, heads between their knees. The air is thick with sweat, and that heavy, low-grade panic that never quite leaves a place like this.
Hopelessness clings to everything—skin, fabric, breath.
My stomach tightens. I press a hand low over my abdomen and breathe through it.
Fuck off. Not now. Please, not now.
“This is Triage check-in,” Olivia explains. “A nurse gives them a once-over. If they’re not dying, they get vitals and labs, then wait.”
“For how long?” Jax asks, voice jumping half an octave.
“Two to four hours, if they’re lucky. Six to eight is standard.”
“Is it always this busy?” I keep my voice steady as the pain in my gut flares.
She snorts. “Nah. It gets worse.”
Of course it does.
We push back through the doors into the ER.
“Call me if you need me. Otherwise, fast and efficient, like Dr. Zac said.”
“See you on the flip side, losers,” Sienna calls over her shoulder, strutting off into a bay.
I roll my eyes and turn to Jax. “Good luck.”
“Yeah,” he says. “You too.”
I open the chart and head to bed fifteen. Please let this be a sprained ankle. Or an ingrown toenail. Something low stakes. This is my first real patient. Not a mannequin or a peer playing Dying Woman Number Three in Sim Lab. A real, actual, live human.
I whisper my new mantra again, “Confident. Capable. In control,” and pull the curtain aside.
The man sitting—well, hovering—on the edge of the bed is sweating through his hoodie and flinching with every minor movement. Mid-twenties, beard patchy, hair slicked back. He’s two seconds from making a run for it. His expression is equal parts panic and embarrassment.
I look down at the chart and bite my lip. The dumbest thing this guy has ever done is going to be officially on his medical records.
He glances up, sees me, and pales. “Oh God. You’re the doctor?”
“Intern,” I correct. “But I’ve been trained and supervised. Dr. Clarke will review everything with me. What brings you in today, Mr…” I check the chart again. “Lachlan Young?”
I already know what’s wrong. But protocol is protocol.
The patient has to explain in their own words why they came to the ER.
Still… I can’t pretend I’m not a little gleeful about making him say it.
There’s something oddly satisfying about watching a grown man try to wrap medical terminology around an objectively terrible decision.
He hesitates. A long, awkward pause stretches between us, filled only by the faint beep of a monitor in the next bay and the sound of him shifting against the crinkly paper on the bed.
“Well…” He clears his throat. “I, uh. I had a bit of an accident.”
“Mm-hmm,” I say, nodding solemnly. “What kind of accident?”
His eyes dart to the curtain, then back to me. “It involved a speaker.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “A… speaker?”
He rubs his temple. “Like a Bluetooth speaker. A Beats Pill or whatever. Long. Red. Slimline. You know the kind.”
I do. I own one. I haven’t used it in forever; it’s probably sitting on a shelf somewhere, covered in dust.
The corners of my mouth twitch.
“I see.” I jot something down on the clipboard, mostly to give my hands something to do besides applauding him for the commitment. “And how exactly did the speaker come to be… involved?”
He exhales loudly before rushing out, “I slipped. In the shower.”
Sure. Let’s go with that.
I keep my face locked in neutral professional mode. “You were using it in the shower?”
Lachlan blinks. “The acoustics are amazing.”
“Okay. And the speaker is currently…?”
He jabs a thumb toward his lower back. “Still… inside.”
Right.
I glance at the notes scribbled in triage: Patient presents with abdominal discomfort and suspected foreign body retention. Reports onset during solo use of personal electronics in shower.
I inhale through my nose. “Any bleeding? Pain?”
“No bleeding. Pain? Yeah, like someone shoved Excalibur where the sun doesn’t shine.”
“Okay,” I say, slipping on gloves. “Let’s do a quick exam and get an X-ray. We’ll need to see where and how deep it is before attempting a retrieval.”
He turns a lovely shade of fuchsia. “Do I… have to drop my pants?”
“I’m afraid that’s standard protocol for ass-speaker situations.”
He groans. “I thought I wouldn’t have to bend over for a doctor until I was, like, seventy.”
“Honestly? You’re not the worst we’ve had. I once heard about a guy with a pool cue.”
He doesn’t need to know it’s my first day or that he’s my first patient.
His brows lift. “Seriously?”
I grin. “Deadly. You’re practically vanilla.”
He lets out a strained chuckle. “That’s… weirdly comforting.”
Job done.
I walk him through the process, then help him onto his side. His knees draw up, and I angle the overhead light. There’s no visible trauma, no protrusion, which is both good and bad.
“Okay, I’m going to do a gentle rectal exam to confirm placement.”
“You say gentle, but I feel like this is going to be the worst moment of my year.”
“Trust me,” I mutter, “same.”
The exam is awkward but quick. I note where the speaker seems to be lodged and how far up. Definitely not something we can pull out without imaging—and possibly some sedation.
“All done. You handled it like a champ.”
He exhales. “So… what now?”
“We get an X-ray and let Dr. Clarke review it. Depending on how cooperative your Beats buddy is, we’ll decide if it’s a manual retrieval or if we need surgical assistance.”
He groans again, flopping back onto the pillow.
“My cousin dared me. Said it wouldn’t fit.”
Finally, the truth.
“And you thought your rectum was the place to prove a point?”
Twenty minutes later, the X-ray’s back. And yes—there it is. Clear as day. The entire speaker lodged like a rogue submarine halfway up his colon.
Dr. Clarke glances at the image. “Bet that’s not what they meant by surround sound,” she deadpans.
I snort.
“All right,” she says. “You’re up. He’s stable, the object’s smooth, and he’s not in acute distress. Prep for retrieval. But if it doesn’t budge in two attempts, we call GI.”
“Yes, Dr. Clarke.”
I’m both thrilled and horrified that she trusts me enough to take the lead. My hands are steady as I glove up again and explain the process to Lachlan. He’s game—resigned but cooperative.
“You sure you’ve done this before?” he asks.
“I’ve practiced on mannequins. And one very brave med-school tutor who now walks with a limp.”
He doesn’t laugh. Tough crowd.
With Clarke supervising, I use a little gentle traction and a lot of lube, sliding in. I coax the speaker down, centimeter by centimeter, until finally—blessedly—it slips free with a soft, wet pop.
I hold it up in gloved hands like I’m presenting Simba at Pride Rock.
“Boom,” I whisper. “We’ve got audio.”
Clarke clears her throat and murmurs, just loud enough for me to hear, “Clean him up, observe for another hour, and advise him against repeat performances.”
I nod, grinning under my mask. “Yes, ma’am.”
Lachlan looks up from the bed, pale but grateful. “So… do I owe you dinner or something?”
I smile. “Only if you promise to never look at a speaker in that way again.”
“Deal.”
I walk away on a high. First patient of the day, and I didn’t screw up—or puke. Small victories. But the second I step into the main corridor, the buzz starts to fade, replaced by the familiar, dull ache in my stomach. The meds are already losing their magic.
And then there’s Zac.
I still can’t wrap my head around it. Of all the hospitals, of all the rotations I could’ve drawn, I somehow landed here. Working under the man who knows what my “O” face looks like. My stomach churns, less rollercoaster, more slow-motion car crash.
Today was always going to be brutal. First day. First rotation. First time pretending I know what I’m doing. But now I’ve got him—towering, confident, and extremely off-limits—walking these halls like it’s no big deal.
I turn the corner, cheeks burning, and immediately stop short at what’s either a spilled protein shake or a very unapologetic puddle of vomit outside the supply closet.
A janitor glances up from his mop bucket. “Watch it, newbie.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, sidestepping in time to save my sneakers.
Whoever’s up there listening: please. I’m begging you. Don’t let me puke, pass out, or completely crash and burn in front of Zac.
I’m already one for three. And my pride?
She’s not built for this shit.