29. Sam
TWENTY-NINE
Sam
The microwave beeps, and I stare at the reheated coffee. Steam rises from the mug, curling in the morning light that filters through my tiny kitchen window.
"We've scanned the thousands of comments on the article. I've got a team dedicated to this. Your name isn't anywhere. You're still safe."
Arden's voice fills the silence through my phone speaker. She sounds like she's been talking for hours, which, knowing her, she probably has. She was born for this shit. I, on the other hand, was not.
"What's the latest?" I pull the mug closer, wrapping my fingers around the ceramic warmth.
"No follow-up article yet, but the rumor mill is churning. The comments are from the typical online provocateurs trying to stir up drama. So far, you're still a mystery woman. Stay boring, Sammy. Boring is good."
I huff a laugh, but it snags somewhere behind my ribs. It’s not funny. Not really. Mystery woman. Like I'm some character in a tabloid headline I never asked to be part of .
"How boring are we talking? Because boring doesn't describe surgical residency at Grady."
"Grady's lucky to have you. Let that be as exciting as your life is right now, let me focus on how to make sure that's where it ends."
The conviction in her voice makes me want to believe it, but the words bounce off me like rain on glass. I rub the space between my eyebrows where a headache's been living for three days.
"I'm still bracing for impact. I know the other shoe will drop."
"You made the right call by not engaging. No comment keeps you clean. You’re not the story, he is. Let her chase headlines without your help.”
“I just don’t want silence to look like guilt.”
“It won’t. It’ll look like dignity. Like someone who knows her name doesn’t belong in this mess."
"If this goes public, Arden, I don't want to be someone's footnote. Or the punchline to his scandal. The whore my father all but assumed I was, sleeping with him to get something out of it."
"In all fairness, you did sleep with him to get something out of it. Amazing orgasms and a fun few days."
"Not funny right now."
"Sorry. Too soon."
The line goes quiet except for the distant hum of Atlanta traffic waking up. When she speaks again, her voice carries that fierce protectiveness that's kept us friends since elementary school.
"Sam, be the story that outlives these five seconds."
My throat tightens, and I blink hard against the tears that want to come. I've cried enough over Cole Houston. I'm done with him. I can't control this, but I will survive .
"I should probably let you go so I can head in. Dr. O'Brien doesn't exactly welcome tardiness."
"Sam."
"Yeah?"
"You're going to be okay. Different, maybe. But okay. I'll keep my team on the keywords and let you know if anything comes up."
My phone beeps with a text reminder.
Shift starts 7:00 AM.
I've got minutes. I drain the coffee in three quick gulps, feeling it burn down my throat. The taste is bitter and stale, but it'll have to do.
"I have to go. Trying not to get yelled at today is my new life motto."
"Love you, Sammy."
"Love you too."
I grab my keys and bag. It's heavier than usual, weighted down by everything I'm trying not to think about. I've now got twenty minutes to get to Grady and pretend I've got my shit together.
Fake it 'til you make it. That's what I keep repeating, waiting for the "make it" part of the equation to kick in.
When I push through the doors, Tracy nods at me. It's not exactly warm, but the ice seems to warm a little more each day. Progress, maybe.
"Taylor, trauma two."
Dr. O'Brien's voice cuts through the controlled chaos without her even looking up from her clipboard. I scrub in fast, my muscle memory taking over.
The patient's a fifty-something construction worker. Coffee-colored skin and calloused hands catch my eye. His vitals are crashing hard .
"BP's dropping. Eighty over forty."
Someone's calling out numbers while a resident I don't know yet fumbles with the IV line. The monitor's beeping gets faster, more frantic.
He's going into shock.
The thought hits me before the numbers confirm it. I don't wait for permission and step forward to check his airway, feeling for the pulse point at his neck.
"He's coding."
The words come out steady, professional. Inside, my brain switches into that zone where everything slows down and speeds up at the same time. This is what I know I'm good at.
"Starting compressions."
My hands find the right spot on his chest. The rhythm comes naturally. I count thirty compressions, then give two breaths. The ribs are solid under my palms, but I know they might crack. Better broken ribs than a dead patient.
"Come on, stay with us."
Sweat drips down my chest under my scrubs. The room narrows to the compressions, the monitor, the man's face going gray under the lights.
Tracy slides in beside me with the crash cart. No attitude now, just focus.
"Got it."
The shock paddles charge, and everyone steps back except me. I keep compressions until the last second.
"Clear."
His body jolts. The monitor flat lines for a heartbeat, then beeps back to life. Steady rhythm and a strong pulse come to life.
"There we go."
I'm breathing hard, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my wrist. The room is too bright suddenly, too real.
Tracy strips off her gloves and tosses them at the trash bin near my feet.
"Nice catch. You just saved his ass."
It's not exactly a compliment, but it's not nothing either. A small crack in the wall between us.
Later, O'Brien passes me in the hallway.
"Good instincts, Taylor." She doesn't stop or make eye contact, just says it as she walks by.
That's it. No fanfare, no celebration. But something loosens in my chest anyway. It's like I can breathe deeply for the first time in days.
In the bathroom, I catch my reflection in the mirror above the sink. Blood on my left cheek that isn't mine smears across it. Long strands of hair fall out of its ponytail. I may look like hell, but I feel useful, needed, even, for the first time since I got here.
"Guess I don't suck today."
The words bounce off the empty walls.
After rounds, I need to find the records room for a patient file. Somehow, I end up in the rear hospital lot instead. The GPS on my phone gave up three hallways ago.
Great. Lost again.
The lot stretches behind the main building, filled with dumpsters and forgotten equipment. A storage shed sits crooked against the back fence, and tucked beside it is something that stops me cold.
It's an old medical van. The white paint is peeling like sunburned skin, and the tires are flat against the cracked asphalt. The logo on the side is so faded I can barely make out the words.
Mobile Clini c
"That thing hasn't run in two years. Such a shame."
I jump and spin around. An older Black man in maintenance coveralls stands behind me, keys jangling from his belt. His name tag reads Leon.
"Sorry, I was looking for records and got turned around."
"No problem, honey. You're new, right? I'm Leon."
He reaches his large palm out, and I follow suit to shake his weathered hand.
"Sam. What was this van for?"
Leon's face shifts, something wistful crossing his features. He walks closer, running his palm over the faded hood.
"Outreach program. We used to drive through East Point every Friday. It was a hospital-on-wheels type deal."
I crouch beside the van door, my fingers trailing over the peeling paint. The metal is warm from the sun.
"People actually used this?"
"Hell yeah. We used to pack this thing full of medical supplies. Blood pressure checks, diabetes monitoring, and basic care. Now, folks come here too late. It was a damn shame to lose it."
Leon shrugs and walks off, his keys echoing against the storage shed. I stay crouched by the van, staring at the ghost of whatever program this used to represent.
It’s been one of those bone-bruising kinds of days. My body’s exhausted, but weirdly, I’m more awake than I’ve felt in weeks.
The break room’s overhead fluorescents buzz like dying insects. I drop into a plastic chair that’s seen better decades and pull out my phone. Kip answers on the second ring .
“Tell me someone didn’t die on your watch today,” he says, skipping any kind of normal greeting.
“Not yet. Your interns still terrified of you?”
He grunts. “One cried today. I count that as bonding.”
“Speaking of trauma, bonding, how’s the coffee situation down there? Still taste like motor oil?”
I glance toward the sad little pot in the corner. The carafe’s stained brown, like it gave up years ago.
“Let’s just say the coffee here makes Good Sam feel like a high-end café.”
“Hospitals and shit coffee. Name a more iconic duo.”
The familiar rhythm of our banter is good for my soul. It's easy, and for a second, it even tricks my nervous system into unclenching.
But when the conversation hits a lull, everything rushes back—the van, Leon’s face, the weight of things that used to matter.
“Sam? You still there?”
“Yeah. I’m here.”
“Still carrying it?”
It’s not a question. Kip hears the stuff I don’t say better than most people hear the words I do.
“It’s easing up.”
“Don’t bullshit me.”
I shrug, even though he can’t see it. “It is what it is. I’m surviving.”
He hasn’t asked about the article, not directly.
But I know he knows. Everyone in our world knows.
He’s waiting for me to talk about it, but I’m not ready.
The silence stretches between Atlanta and Indianapolis.
I trace a fingertip along the scratched table, watching the sun angle through the grimy window.
How do you explain that some wounds don’t heal? They just get better at hiding .
“Tell me about your day instead.”
“Nice deflection. But okay.” He knows when to push and when to back off.
He launches into a play-by-play of the same residents, different disasters. I’m half listening, grateful not to be alone in this mess, and half watching the ink smear from the pen I’m fidgeting with.
"Hey, listen to this. I found this old medical van behind the hospital today. Just sitting there, abandoned."
"Uh, huh. Groundbreaking."
"Shut up. I'm serious. It was part of an outreach program. Mobile clinic stuff. They used to drive through the neighborhoods every Friday. Sounds like such a great program in a city like this."
My voice gets quieter without meaning to. I can picture Leon's expression when he talked about it, like he was remembering something sacred.
"I've heard of things like that in urban areas."
"They had to stop, though, because of a lack of funds. Sucks. It's a fully equipped mini-hospital rotting in the back of the hospital parking lot. Isn't that awful? I'm sure they spent a ton of money getting started. That van alone probably cost a couple hundred grand."
Kip doesn't answer right away. When he does, his voice is matter-of-fact, like he's stating the obvious.
"So bring it back."
"What?"
"Bring it back. Mobile clinics aren't rocket science, Sam. You're smart, you're stubborn, and you care too much about everything. Sounds like a perfect storm for making something happen."
I stare at the phone, processing. Simple. Like it's obvious.
"Kip, did you hear me? They don't have money. Plus, I don't know the first thing about starting a program. Not to mention, I'm just a resident. Remember?"
"So learn. You figured out surgical residency. You can figure out how to raise money. There are plenty of people who want a worthy cause to donate to. Sounds like this just needs someone to spearhead and organize. It can be your Atlanta baby."
After Kip hangs up, I sit in the break room a little longer, phone still warm in my hand.
The hum of the fridge kicks on. Somewhere down the hall, I hear a wobbly cart move around the corner.
Then I open a browser.
Mobile health program startup costs. Grants for urban community outreach. 501(c)(3) registration steps.
Each search pulls up another link, another link, leading me further down my rabbit hole. The deeper I go, the more real it starts to feel. Real enough to scare me.
A sample budget includes words like vehicle maintenance , medical supply rotation , and EMR compliance . Numbers with too many zeroes. I exhale, slow and shaky.
There’s a reason no one’s done this. There’s also a reason I can’t stop looking.
I tap the screen off and set the phone face down.
I’m not ready. Not today. But the idea’s in me now, and it won’t leave.
And for the first time in weeks, it won't be him keeping me up tonight.