27. Sam
TWENTY-SEVEN
Sam
The locker room at Grady hits me like a wall of disinfectant and exhaustion. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in that sickly hospital glow that makes everyone look half-dead. It's barely six in the morning, and the place already feels like a war zone.
I'm dressed in scrubs, lesson learned from my first day when I showed up in street clothes and got looks like I'd forgotten pants. The navy blue feels foreign compared to the familiar green at Good Samaritan, but I'm trying to blend in.
Tracy Patel stands at the mirror, somehow managing to make her ponytail look like she stepped off a magazine cover despite being up since four. She catches my eye in the reflection.
"Morning, Dr. Taylor."
The smile she gives me could frost windows. Polite while also dismissive. It's the kind of greeting that says I see you, but I'm not particularly thrilled about it.
"Morning."
Neil Brooks, a second-year surgical resident, doesn't even look up from his phone. He's slouched against his locker like he's allergic to standing upright while his thumbs fly across the screen.
His scrubs look like he slept in them. Which he probably did.
I fumble with my combination lock, trying to look casual. I'm trying to appear like I've been here forever instead of three days. The metal is cold under my fingers, and my hands shake slightly .
“Does anyone know if OR2 is cursed or just poorly ventilated?"
The joke falls flat. Tracy's laugh sounds forced. Neil doesn't bother to react at all.
Jesus . At Good Samaritan, Kip would have had a comeback ready. He'd say some off-color joke about how the ghost of a patient who died from surgical complications haunts that room. We'd be laughing within seconds.
Here, there are only crickets.
My jaw clenches involuntarily. The tension crawls up my neck, settling behind my ears like a vise. My hands curl into fists inside my pockets.
They know. They know I transferred from Palm Beach, probably assuming the biggest trauma I saw was a yacht accident. They know I'm Samuel Taylor's daughter, that I come from money and connections. They know I've never worked a shift where gunshot wounds outnumber broken bones.
Now I'm questioning every reason I thought coming here would be a good idea.
"First trauma rotation?"
Tracy's question sounds innocent enough, but there's something underneath it. It almost sounds like she's making fun of me.
"Yeah. Looking forward to it. "
Lie. I'm terrified. The case load here makes Good Samaritan look like a spa weekend. But I'd rather eat glass than admit that.
Neil finally glances up from his phone. "Hope you're ready for the real world, princess."
The nickname hits like a slap. My breath catches, shallow and quick. Heat floods my cheeks.
He's lucky I don't pull him up by his wrinkled scrubs and slap his smug face.
I want to tell him I've worked my ass off to get here, that I chose Grady specifically because it would challenge me.
Instead, I just nod. "Ready as I'll ever be."
My pager buzzes against my hip, cutting through the awkward silence. Trauma bay. Thank God.
"Duty calls."
I close my locker and head toward the surgical floor, forcing my shoulders back and willing my steps to be confident.
My heart pounds with each step, and I miss the easy comfort of home so much it physically aches in my chest.
The trauma bay is controlled chaos that smells like blood and iodine. My sneakers squelch against floors that don't seem completely clean.
I report to the charge nurse, who assigns me to Dr. O'Brien for an appendectomy. I spot Neil and Tracy. I wonder if they knew we would be on this together and just chose not to mention it.
Dr. Fiona O'Brien stands by the sink, already scrubbing. Her posture screams military precision even in surgical scrubs. When I approach, she doesn't look up.
"You're Taylor."
It's not a question, but a fact filed away and dismissed. Sweet, I traded Dr. Grimaldi for her evil twin .
"Yes, ma'am. Ready to assist."
I start scrubbing beside her, the familiar ritual calming my nerves. The bristles bite into my skin as I work methodically up my forearms.
"I've done about thirty of these. Clean cases, mostly. One complicated by adhesions from previous surgery."
Dr. O'Brien gives me a curt nod. "Good."
Tracy appears at the next sink, already half-dressed in surgical gear. "Appendectomies were our bread and butter at Good Sam. Though I bet they used the fancy laparoscopic equipment for everything, right, Sam?"
The comment sounds casual, friendly, even. But underneath lurks something sharper.
Here we go.
"We used whatever was appropriate for the case."
My voice stays level despite the heat crawling up my neck. I scrub harder, focusing on the mechanical motion.
In the OR, everything is wrong. The lights are dimmer, the equipment older, but somehow more intimidating. The ventilation system hums louder than I'm used to. Even the surgical instruments feel different in my hands—heavier, less refined.
The patient is a nineteen-year-old construction worker. His abdomen is swollen and tender, but his vitals are stable. Classic presentation.
"Scalpel."
Dr. O'Brien makes her incision with surgical precision. I anticipate her needs, handing her instruments before she asks. My movements are smooth and confident.
I know what I'm doing. I belong here, I keep telling myself.
"Metz, please."
I pass the scissors without hesitation. Dr. O'Brien examines the appendix, which is inflamed but not ruptured.
"Tracy, what's your assessment of the inflammation level?"
Tracy peers over the surgical field. "Moderate inflammation, no perforation evident. Standard removal should be straightforward."
"Neil, thoughts on antibiotic protocol?"
"Prophylactic cephalexin should be sufficient given the lack of complications."
Dr. O'Brien nods approvingly at both responses. I wait for my turn to contribute something, anything, but she continues working.
I'm invisible.
My hands remain steady as I retract tissue and suction blood from the surgical site. But inside, frustration builds like pressure in a sealed container.
"Taylor, suture."
Finally, she acknowledges my existence. I thread the needle and begin closing the peritoneum with precise, even stitches. My technique is flawless—exactly like my father taught me during those summer afternoons in his home office.
Dr. O'Brien watches but says nothing. No criticism, but also no praise.
The case wraps up efficiently. Twenty-eight minutes from incision to final suture. The patient will recover completely with minimal scarring.
"Good work, everyone."
Dr. O'Brien strips off her gloves and heads toward the door without another word.
In the scrub room afterward, I wash my hands methodically. The water runs pink from microscopic traces of blood under my fingernails .
How did I end up here? This is all wrong. What have I done, thinking I could do this?
I slip into the bathroom and stare at my reflection. My eyes are hollow under the harsh fluorescent lights. Dark circles emphasize how exhausted I feel.
Don't cry. Not here. Not now. But my throat tightens anyway.
I push through the heavy metal door marked "Authorized Personnel Only" and step onto the hospital rooftop.
The Atlanta skyline spreads before me, all glass towers and construction cranes reaching toward gray afternoon clouds.
The air up here tastes like exhaust and humidity, but it's better than the antiseptic suffocation downstairs.
My hands shake as I pull out my phone. Arden has a big meeting today, so I already know she can't talk. But I need to connect to a friendly voice, someone who doesn't look at me like I'm an intruder, even if only through text.
I hate it here.
She'll worry. She'll want to fix everything, and there's nothing to fix except my own weakness.
Her reply comes fast.
The first few weeks of something new always suck. You're gonna kill it. Want to call later?
The kindness makes my chest tighten. I lean against the concrete ledge and dial Kip instead. He answers on the third ring, and I can hear the chaos of a busy café behind him.
"Well, well. If it isn't Atlanta's newest trauma queen. How's the battlefield? "
His voice is exactly what I need. It's familiar, easy, and completely normal.
"It's..." I pause, watching traffic crawl through downtown streets below.
"That good?"
"It's intense. The residents here act like I showed up in pearls and heels. I don't know what I was thinking, picking a place like this after living in my bubble."
"Please tell me you wore the good pearls, at least."
"Shut up."
Kip laughs, and for a moment I can picture him sitting in some Indianapolis coffee shop, probably wearing that ridiculous Northwestern baseball cap he never takes off.
"They're just testing you. Remember Andrew Gilly at Good Sam? He barely spoke to me for two months."
"That's because you kept flirting with his girlfriend."
"Not flirting-flirting." Papers rustle on his end.
"Same difference."
"How's the actual work?"
"I feel like I'm moving underwater. Everything takes twice as long as it should." My voice catches, betraying me.
"Sam." His tone shifts, becoming serious.
"I'm here."
"Grady isn't Palm Beach. But it's real. And you belong there. You do."
"What if I don't? What if I made a mistake leaving? What if I'm only cut out for the small town, cushy hospital?"
"Then you made an honest mistake trying to grow. That's not the worst thing in the world. That's the thing about this life, you can always pivot."
I press my hand against my chest, willing my breathing to slow down. The concrete is rough under my palm as I lean harder against the ledge .
"I traded being treated like a nepo baby to being treated like a princess invader."
"Princess? You? That’s laughable.”
Despite everything, I smile. “Is it, though?”
"You're determined and skilled. Maybe a little too proud sometimes, but not a prima donna.”
A helicopter passes overhead, probably carrying another trauma patient to the helipad on the opposite side of the building. The sound drowns out whatever Kip says next.
"What?"
"I said you're going to be fine. Better than fine. You're going to show them what a Taylor can do when she stops worrying about the name on her coat."
My throat tightens again, but this time it's gratitude instead of despair.
"Thanks, Kip."
"Don't mention it. Now get back in there and save some lives."
"Thanks. I needed that. I'll call you later."
The line goes dead. I wipe my eyes on my sleeve, hating that I'm crying at work, or that I feel weak. I hate that I left everything familiar behind and walked straight into chaos.
My pager vibrates against my hip. Back to reality.
I take one last look at the skyline, square my shoulders, and head for the door.
After my shift, my head is swimming.
I'm barely through the door when my phone starts ringing. Some unfamiliar number with a Palm Beach area code. I consider letting it go to voicemail, but my exhaustion makes me vulnerable to hope. Maybe it's someone from home.
I answer while kicking off my sneakers. "Hello?"
"Is this Dr. Samantha Taylor?"
The voice is crisp and professional, but it’s not one I recognize.
"Speaking."
"My name is Laurel Harrelson. I'm a reporter with the Palm Beach Post. I've been working on a story involving the Good Samaritan restructuring. I'd like to ask you a few questions about your time there."
"Oh, okay. Sure."
"Specifically, your relationship with Cole Houston."
The floor drops out from under me. The words echo in my head like they're bouncing off canyon walls.
Cole. What the hell?
"What is this about?"
My voice sounds far away and detached. I grip the phone tightly as my knuckles go white.
"There are connections between Mr. Houston's financial entities and the shell company that acquired the hospital's debt. I'm confirming timelines and motives."
The room tilts sideways. My skin goes cold, starting at my scalp and spreading down like ice water. The pulse in my neck hammers so hard I wonder if she can hear it through the phone.
Shell company. Financial entities. Motives. I know these words, but not in this context.
My mouth is dry.
Oh God. Oh no.
I try to breathe through the storm building in my chest. The air is too thick, like trying to inhale soup.
"I don't understand what you're saying. "
She says something, but I can't make it out. She sounds like she's talking underwater.
"Dr. Taylor? Are you there?"
I force words past the tightness in my throat. "I'm here. But I've got to go."
"I wanted to give you a heads up that this story is moving forward. If you want to comment, I'm happy to give you the opportunity."
I hang up.
She sounded polite. Warm, even. But what she said was anything but.
I stare at the screen. Thirty-seven seconds. That’s how long it took to rip the air from my lungs.
My legs give out. I slide to the kitchen floor, my back against the cabinets, the phone still clutched in my hand.
He used me.
The betrayal reopens like a surgical wound. But this time, it’s deeper. This time, it’s not just personal. It’s professional. Public. Permanent.
A reporter.
Jesus Christ.
A reporter.