Chapter 14 #2
“What about you, how are you finding it?” Hannah asks.
“As far as first days go? No complaints,” I reply.
Would be better if I weren’t exhausted and in the middle of a Crohn’s flare.
“I thought we’d be doing cooler shit,” Sienna mutters.
“It’s literally your first day,” Hannah points out.
Sienna rolls her eyes. “Well, at least my day is going better than Stacks here, hitting the deck mid-trauma.”
Jaxon drags both hands over his face, then tips his head back like he’s praying for divine patience. “Seriously? Again with this?” he grumbles. “Put a sock in it, Sienna. And stop spreading gossip.”
She smirks. “Call it gossip if you want—I call it live reporting.”
“And I call it unprofessional,” Hannah mutters, arching a brow.
The elevator dings open, and we step into a blast of sun. My first breath of fresh air since starting the shift. I tilt my face to the sky and close my eyes for a moment.
Hannah’s giving the rundown, and I’m half listening, half taking stock of my body while basking in a rare moment of calm.
Overall? Not too bad. Exhausted, a little achy, but holding steady. I’d kill for a sandwich, though. A crusty, carby, melt-in-your-mouth kind of sandwich. But I can’t risk it. Not until I’m off shift.
The whoop-whoop of the chopper blades builds as the helicopter descends onto the pad. A crew member hops out with a cooler and hands it to Hannah. Smooth. Efficient. Over in sixty seconds.
“Well, that was a waste of time,” Sienna mumbles.
“You needed to know not to cross the red line. Now you do,” Hannah replies evenly.
Sienna rolls her eyes again.
Sure, that trip to the helipad was a total waste of time, but I got a few precious seconds of sunshine. I’ll take it.
“Later, losers,” Sienna calls, as we step out of the elevator, already in search of her next patient. I do the same—heading in to treat a horrible burn on a woman’s forearm.
***
I’m elbow-deep in a burn dressing when I catch Jax hovering outside the curtain, fiddling with his stethoscope.
“Spit it out,” I say, peeling off my gloves.
He hesitates, then jerks his head toward the next bay. “Can you give me a second set of eyes?”
I follow him, curiosity already piquing. “What’s the case?”
“Ten-year-old boy, vague abdominal pain. No fever, no vomiting. He says it’s a six out of ten, but he’s barely wincing. No rebound, no guarding. Bloods are fine. Urine is clean. No infection. Normal ultrasound.”
“And?”
He blows out a breath. “Nothing’s lining up. Kensington has already walked by once. And I don’t want to call Zac in and sound like I’ve got no clue.”
Ah. There it is. I glance sideways. “You’re worried he’s going to think you’re not cut out for the ER after the fainting incident?”
He flinches.
“I’m not trying to throw shade,” I add quickly. “We’re in this together.”
“I know.” His voice is tight. “And yeah. I’m trying to stay ahead of it. I don’t want that one moment to be what people remember… especially if Sienna keeps giving them something to talk about.”
He exhales hard. “Honestly? I think he’s playing it up. Trying to stay overnight. Mom says he’s been different since the dad moved out—extra reserved.”
He pulls back the curtain, and I step inside. A slim boy is lying on the bed, curled slightly, one arm across his stomach. His mother sits at his side, concern etched deep into her face.
“This is Chloe, one of our doctors.” Jax steps aside so I can introduce myself.
“Hi,” I say gently. “Mind if I ask a few questions?”
The boy nods. His name’s Ethan. His pain has been there since last night. No recent falls or injuries. No family history of abdominal issues. But he’s tired. Didn’t want breakfast. Skipped soccer practice.
I press carefully around his abdomen. No specific tenderness, but he does flinch a little near the right lower quadrant.
“How’s your appetite, Ethan?”
He shrugs. “I’m not hungry.”
“Any issues with the toilet? Pooping? Peeing?”
“No.”
“Does your tummy feel worse after eating certain things?”
He shrugs again. “I guess.”
“Gluten?” I ask. “Like bread or pasta?”
His mom perks up. “Actually, he has complained before about a sore tummy after pasta. But the GP already ruled out a gluten intolerance.”
I nod, thinking. Catching Jax’s eye, I tip my head toward the curtain. He gets the message.
We step outside of the bay, and Jax crosses his arms. “We’ve ruled out appendicitis, renal, and even constipation. Everything’s come back fine.”
“He’s not fine,” I say. “It’s just not obvious.”
Jax frowns. “You don’t think he’s attention-seeking?”
“No,” I affirm. “I think you’re missing the quiet diagnoses. Could be mesenteric adenitis. Or atypical celiac.”
He looks at me. “Really?”
“I’ve seen it before. The TTG antibodies and ESR might tell us more.”
“We already did a CBC and CRP.”
“Then add a celiac screen, ESR, and a repeat ultrasound—focused on the lymph nodes.”
He hesitates.
“If you’re wrong, it’s still non-invasive,” I point out. “If I’m right, you’re not sending a boy home in pain.”
Before he can respond, Dr. Kensington comes up behind him.
“Dr. Wells,” he says smoothly. “Update on bay seven?”
Jax straightens. “Vitals stable. No acute distress. Labs and imaging pending. We’re screening for less-obvious GI pathology.”
Kensington’s eyes flick to me. “And you’re consulting a fellow intern for that?”
“I’ve come across something similar before,” I jump in. “The symptoms didn’t align at first, but it turned out we just needed a better look. Jax is on the right track.”
Kensington stares at us for a moment. Then gives a clipped nod. “Let me know what comes back.”
He walks off. Jax exhales so hard it’s almost a groan.
“You didn’t have to cover for me,” he says.
“I didn’t. You had it—you just needed some backup,” I reply.
We walk toward Central. He drops into a chair and scrubs his face.
“I hate this,” he mutters. “The whole… not knowing thing.”
“You mean, being a doctor and a human?”
“No.” He stares at the wall. “I mean, being the guy who’s supposed to know it all.”
I sit next to him, our knees brushing.
“You ever feel like everyone’s waiting for you to screw up?” he asks.
I lift my chin. “Constantly.”
He sighs. “Back at uni, I was top of every class. My parents act like I’ve cured cancer. But now, I’m scared to sneeze wrong in front of Kensington. Or Zac. Or you.”
“Me?” I snort.
“You’re super smart. Don’t think no one’s noticed.”
I shift in my seat. “Want the truth?”
“Always.”
“I’ve got Crohn’s. Diagnosed as a kid. I’m working through a flare right now, actually.”
“Shit.” His eyebrows hit his hairline.
“I’ve learned how to function through the pain. You’d be amazed what adrenaline and caffeine can cover up.”
He tilts his head. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I know what it’s like to feel like you’re not allowed to falter. That if you don’t show up perfect, you’ll lose everything. But that’s bullshit.”
Jax’s jaw works, then he lets out a breath.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “It is bullshit. But it’s hard to unlearn.”
I playfully slap his arm. “Good thing you’ve got me.”
He snorts. “God help me.”
I gesture toward the curtain. “Come on. Let’s ultrasound again. I’ve got a hunch.”
Fifteen minutes later, we’re huddled around the screen as it loads.
“Well, damn,” Jax mutters. “You were right. Mesenteric lymphadenopathy.”
“Some cases play hard to get.” I try not to boast, but I’m grinning.
He explains it to the mom while I chart. She’s grateful, emotional. Ethan looks relieved that someone finally gets what he’s feeling.
As we walk out, Jax nudges me.
“Dr. House in a ponytail,” he says.
I laugh. “You saying I’m brilliant and insufferable?”
“Weird and useful. But yeah, that too. I owe you one.”
I snort. Napoleon calling me weird is a whole new level of irony.
“Thanks, Monroe.”
“Anytime, Wells.”