CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SOPHIA
Mid-shift chaos. That’s what I call Tuesday afternoons when the weekend warriors have finally decided their injuries need attention, and the lunch-break heart attacks start rolling in. I’m reviewing the board—twelve patients in various stages of treatment—when my phone buzzes.
Jack: Thinking about you. Can't wait for NZ. How's your day?
I smile despite the controlled mayhem around me. Three weeks until New Zealand. Three weeks until I meet his family, see where he grew up. The anticipation mingles with something that feels dangerously close to hope.
I type back quickly:
Me: Typical Tuesday. Missing my coffee delivery service.
His response is immediate:
Jack: Service can resume anytime. Just say when.
“Get a room,” Maria mutters mischievously, fluttering her eyebrows suggestively as she passes by with lab results. “Some of us are trying to work here.”
“Some of us ARE working,” I counter, pocketing my phone. “Where’s Tasha?”
“Fast track. And before you ask, yes, she’s behaving. Mostly.” Maria pauses. “Though she did ask if ‘getting railed by a hot paramedic’ improves your complexion because, and I quote, ‘Sophia’s practically glowing.’”
My face heats. “She did not—”
“Bay 3 needs orders,” Maria says innocently, floating away before I can respond.
The afternoon flows in its usual rhythm—controlled chaos punctuated by moments of pure adrenaline. Nathan’s running triage with his typical quiet efficiency, Melissa’s handling a complex cardiac case, and Cameron Lee is…being Cameron.
“Sophia.” He materializes beside me at the nurses’ station, leaning against the counter in what he probably thinks is a casual pose. “Heard you’re heading to New Zealand.”
“News travels fast.”
“With the paramedic.” His tone suggests I’ve announced plans to join a cult. “Interesting choice.”
“Was there something medical you needed, Dr. Lee?”
“Just concerned about a colleague.” He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “You know, if you wanted someone more…established, the offer still stands.”
“What offer would that be?”
“Dinner. Somewhere that doesn’t serve its wine from boxes.” He winks. “I know a place that has an excellent New Zealand collection, actually. The McKenzie Estate makes a particularly nice—”
I almost laugh. “I’ve actually had that. It’s quite good.” The memory of dinner with Jack warms me for a moment.
“Oh?” His eyebrows raise. “Their 2019 Pinot is exceptional. Three hundred a bottle, but worth it for the right company.”
My stomach drops. Three hundred dollars!? Jack spent three hundred dollars on wine for our first date?
“That’s…” I can’t finish the sentence. That’s almost a car payment. That’s more than some people’s weekly grocery budget. That’s what a paramedic—someone who probably makes less than I do—spent on one bottle of wine to impress me.
Cameron misreads my shock. “I know, pricey. But some things are worth the investment.” He leans closer. “The offer stands, Sophia. Whenever you’re ready for something more…substantial.”
I barely hear him leave. Three hundred dollars. I feel simultaneously touched and furious. How could he spend that much? Why would he spend that much? And why do I feel so guilty about it now?
“Sophia!” Tasha’s voice, usually edged with boredom or complaint, crackled with genuine alarm over the radio. “I need you in Fast Track 3. Now .”
I was halfway there before she finished.
Tasha didn’t panic easily unless it was about her break being delayed.
I push through the curtain to find her standing beside a young man—late teens, maybe early twenties—who was bolt upright on the stretcher, leaning forward, his eyes wide with a terror I recognized instantly.
Stridor. That high-pitched, desperate sound of an airway closing.
He was drooling, unable to swallow, his color a dusky gray.
“Came in for a sore throat about twenty minutes ago,” Tasha said, her voice tight but controlled. “Said it started this morning, got rapidly worse. Temp’s 102. Looked like bad strep, but then this.” She gestured to the patient’s tripoding posture. “It was so fast.”
My mind races. Epiglottitis. Rare in adults and older teens since the HiB vaccine, but the classic signs were all there—the tripod, the drool, the stridor, the toxic appearance. This wasn’t just a sore throat; this was an airway about to slam shut.
“Get him to Trauma One!” I barked, my charge nurse voice kicking in, overriding the knot of ice in my own stomach. “Nate, I need you! Maria, call Anesthesia and ENT! Page them overhead if you have to. Someone grab the difficult airway cart and the cric kit!”
“On it!” Nathan appeared from nowhere, already in motion. That’s what I love about him—no questions, just action.
We moved as a unit—me, Tasha, Nathan, and two techs—wheeling the patient down the hall while I called out orders.
“Get respiratory here now! Set up for emergency cric! Where’s anesthesia?”
“Dr. Singh is coming,” someone called back.
“And ENT?”
“Dr. Williams is in surgery. Twenty minutes minimum.”
“We don’t have twenty minutes,” I mutter, watching the patient’s oxygen saturation plummet. “We’ve got seconds.”
Trauma One erupted into controlled chaos as we transferred the patient to the resuscitation bed.
Dr. Singh, our on-call anesthesiologist, arrives, takes one look, and starts prepping for intubation.
“Can’t see a damn thing,” he muttered after his first attempt, the laryngoscope blade useless against the massive swelling.
“Cords are buried. Someone hand me the Glidescope.”
The high-tech video laryngoscope didn’t help. Second attempt. Failed.
The patient’s sats hit the seventies. His lips are turning blue.
“Can’t visualize,” Singh said, frustration bleeding through his usual calm. “Everything’s swollen shut. We need a surgical airway! Where’s ENT?”
“Still in surgery,” I report. “We need—”
“We need to cric him.” Dr. Cameron Lee’s voice cuts through the tension, surprisingly calm and decisive. He’d appeared at the foot of the bed at some point, drawn by the overhead page for a difficult airway, his usual preening arrogance stripped away, replaced by a laser focus.
My eyes meet his. No time for ego, no time for our usual dance of polite antagonism. Just the patient. “Sophia, where’s the cric tray?” he asked, his voice devoid of any of its usual flirtatious lilt.
“Mayo stand, right corner!” I was already anticipating, had made sure it was there.
He moves with a speed and focus that momentarily stuns me.
He grabs the kit, his hands steady. “Scalpel. Trach hook. Bougie.” He barked the requests, and Nate was there, slapping instruments into his palm.
In a move that was both shocking and brutally efficient, Lee literally jumps from the floor onto the bed with both feet in one smooth motion, straddling the patient’s chest to get the angle and leverage he needed.
Damn the man, but he can move when a life is on the line. Hands of a surgeon, alright.
I was coordinating, calling out vitals, “Sats are 72 and falling!” making sure suction was ready, trying to keep Tasha, who was white-faced and trembling but still managing to bag the patient under Nate’s guidance, from completely losing it.
“Focus, Tasha, I need you,” I said, my voice sharp but, I hoped, not unkind. She nodded, her eyes huge.
Lee made a swift, decisive incision. There was a horrifying, wet, tearing sound, then a gush of dark blood that Nate was instantly suctioning. “Tube,” Lee grunted. He threaded it in. “Ambu to the tube.”
Nate connected the bag. Squeezed. We all held our breath.
A faint mist in the tube. A slight rise in the chest. “I’m in,” Lee said, his voice tight.
“Sats coming up. 82…85…” The collective exhale in Trauma One was almost a physical force.
The kid wasn’t out of the woods, not by a long shot, but he had an airway. He had a chance.
Dr. Lee slid off the bed, his movements economical.
He gave a few curt post-procedure orders to the respiratory therapist who had just arrived, then stripped off his bloody gloves and walked out of the trauma bay without a backward glance.
As he passes me, I catch a glimpse of his face.
It’s pale, almost grey, a stark contrast to his usual confident flush. He looked like he was about to be sick.
Our eyes meet briefly. He knows I’ve seen it. I give the slightest nod—acknowledgment, not judgment—and he’s gone.
The aftermath was a flurry of activity—securing the new airway, getting lines, drawing labs, calling report to the ICU. I checked on the patient, then my team. Tasha was leaning against a wall, tears streaming down her face.
“I should have seen it sooner,” she whispered, her voice choked. “He just said his throat was sore…”
Nate put a steadying hand on her shoulder. “You did good, Tasha. You recognized he was in trouble, and you got Sophia. That’s what matters. Epiglottitis is a zebra, especially in an older kid or young adult. Most of us will go years without seeing one.”
I nodded, adding my own reassurance. “Nate’s right. You escalated appropriately. That’s the job.” She still looked unconvinced, but the raw panic was easing from her eyes. She needed more experience, more confidence, but she hadn’t frozen. She’d called for help. That was a start.
“But—”
“No buts.” Nathan appears at her other side, solid and reassuring. “You did good, Tasha. The patient’s alive because you acted fast.”
She looks between us, tears threatening. “I’ve never seen…I didn’t know…”
“And now you have,” I say. “Next time, you’ll recognize it faster. That’s how we learn.”
“Come on,” Nathan says gently. “Let’s get some water. You did good today.”
He leads her away, and I see her lean into him slightly—not romantic, just seeking comfort from someone steady. There’s something there, something that could grow. I file it away for later consideration.
The trauma bay slowly returns to normal as the patient is wheeled up to surgery. I’m updating the computer when my phone buzzes.
Jack: Rodriguez says evening shift is slow. Coffee delivery in 20?
I text back:
Me: Just cric'd someone. Today was special kind of hell. Counting minutes to NZ.
Jack: On my way with caffeine and inappropriate jokes.
Despite everything, I smile. Three weeks. Three weeks until I can breathe again, can be just Sophia instead of Charge Nurse Mitchell.
I catch Dr. Ward approvingly surveying the scene. “That was impressive,” Dr. Ward says when she sees I’ve noticed. “Lee handled that well.”
“He did,” I agree, thinking of that grey face, that trembling hand. “He really did.”
The rest of the shift blurs together—post-procedure paperwork, checking on Tasha (she’s better, Nathan’s still with her), fielding questions about the dramatic save. The ER never stops, just shifts into different gears.
By the time Jack arrives with coffee, I’m exhausted but wired, that particular post-adrenaline state unique to emergency medicine.
“Heard you had some excitement,” he says, handing me a red-eye with an extra shot.
“Acute epiglottitis.” Jack whistled appreciatively.
“Cameron Lee, of all people.” The gossip network clearly never rests. “Heard he went full action hero.”
“He did what needed doing,” I say carefully, protective of Cameron’s moment of vulnerability. “Saved a life.”
Jack studies me, reading something in my expression. “Good on him, then.”
We sit in the break room, sharing war stories and planning New Zealand. He shows me pictures of the places he wants to take us—beaches, mountains, something called a “glow worm cave” that makes Madison squeal with delight when she FaceTimes us during her lunch break.
“Mom, you look tired,” she observes with teenage bluntness.
“Rough case today, baby. But I’m good.”
“Is Jack taking care of you?”
I glance at him, see the genuine concern in those blue eyes. “Yeah. He is.”
After we hang up, Jack pulls me closer. “Three weeks, tāku ipo . Then you get a proper break.”
“Three weeks,” I agree, letting myself lean into his warmth.
As I gather my things, I spot Cameron in the hallway. He’s back to his usual self—confident stride, perfect hair—but there’s something different. Sharper, maybe. More performative.
“Good work today,” I call out.
He pauses, turns, that practiced smile sliding into place a beat too quickly. “Not bad for a Tuesday. Though I have to say, bed gymnastics weren’t exactly covered in residency.” The joke sounds forced, like he’s trying too hard to make light of it. “Just another save at Metro General.”
The gratitude I expected isn’t there. Instead, there’s something defensive in his posture, like he’s already building walls around what happened in that trauma bay.
Sigh.
Three weeks. Three weeks until Jack’s family, until Kiwi coffee, and until Madison gets to see somewhere beyond her father’s broken promises.