Chapter 2 #3
“Two. One with an appendicitis. She’s stable.” Eira handed him the vitals chart. “Her name is Michelle. You’ll take Nurse Liana with you.”
The officer nodded, already adjusting the straps.
Liana took the girl’s hand as they helped her onto the stretcher. “Ready for a drive, sunshine?”
The girl blinked slowly and gave a tiny thumbs-up.
“Tell Gabe I want a full update as soon as she’s out of surgery.” Eira handed Liana the girl’s file. “And make sure they clean her abdomen well. I don’t trust how fast that infection came on.”
“Got it, Boss.”
The stretcher disappeared through the front door, followed by the steady crunch of boots and the rumble of the departing Jeep.
Eira stood still, hands on her hips, the silence settling like dust after movement.
Just a beat, long enough to exhale. She turned toward the next case and headed to the intake area.
Three new patients arrived. Young men in their late teens, sunburnt to a near-mythic shade of red, clothes stiff with salt and poor decisions.
Their rental skiff was found drifting lazily off the northern coast, engine dead, dignity not far behind.
They spoke in broken French and worse excuses, one of them insisting he was “totally fine” before immediately vomiting the water he’d just chugged.
“Vitals on all three,” Eira said, already moving. “Fluids. Anti-nausea. Oxygen for the wheezing one, and get those clothes off before they fuse to their skin.”
She moved between them, unfazed by their groans or attempts at humor. “Next time,” she said mildly to one as he winced under a cold compress, “try not to outdrink the sun.”
He gave a weak thumbs-up.
Once they were stable, she stepped out into the courtyard, where the clinic shifted back into something softer.
Children clustered on warm stone, drawing suns and spirals in chalk while a therapist guided them gently.
A small girl named Zaina tugged at Eira’s pant leg and pointed proudly to a smiling sun with a crown.
“Is she in charge?” Eira asked.
Zaina nodded. “She keeps the bad dreams away.”
Eira smiled, resting a hand on her shoulder. The little girl had come a long way after being found shackled with three others in an unmarked shipping vessel by the Seychelles police.
Around them, laundry snapped in the breeze, carrying the clean scent of soap and salt. Palm trees swayed overhead, cicadas humming, and somewhere a child sang in a soft, unfamiliar language while the clinic carried on just out of sight.
Inside the clinic, controlled commotion moved with a rhythm Eira knew by heart.
Monitors pulsed in soft green and gold, heartbeats layering beneath the hiss of oxygen and the occasional sharp warning.
Nurses spoke in low, efficient fragments, saying little and missing nothing, while metal trays clinked, sterile packs rotated, and printers fed out the next problem to solve.
Through it all, the sharp scent of antiseptic was softened by something warmer.
The fragrance of fresh bread drifted in from the kitchen, yeast and rosemary threading through the air.
It grounded the place, held it steady between urgency and something almost like home.
Here, children were treated, refugees rebuilt their strength, and survivors learned to live again in the same rooms where they had nearly been lost.
And at the heart of it all was Eira, moving like clockwork, stethoscope slung around her neck and eyes that saw everything.
She paused beneath the archway at the edge of the garden, the day settling across her shoulders and a fresh warm coffee in her hand.
A black SUV rolled up the hill, followed by the crunch of gravel along the path.
It pulled to a stop near the rear of the clinic.
The door opened. Ian Chase stepped out.
He looked as he always did: clean-cut, composed, unreadable behind mirrored sunglasses and effortless confidence. His linen jacket was slung over one arm, sleeves rolled up, his wedding ring catching the sunlight.
Eira raised a brow as he approached. “Didn’t expect a house call.”
“Didn’t plan one,” he said. “Emergency diversion.”
“Who did you bring?” she asked. “I saw the jet, this SUV. It’s not a casual delivery.”
Ian exhaled through his nose and glanced toward the hills. “Ford Cox.”
Eira blinked. That name carried weight. She’d heard it in briefings, seen it on leadership rosters, in field reports with redacted lines and too many black stamps.
“He collapsed,” Ian added. “Total system crash. He hasn’t taken a real day off in over two years. Probably longer. We almost lost him this week. I almost lost him.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “This island is his reset.”
Eira leaned back against the wall, absorbing that. “You want me to watch him.”
“I want you to do what you do best,” Ian said. “Keep him breathing. Help him remember how to be human again.”
She didn’t nod or agree, just sipped her coffee and looked toward the sea. “Let’s see if he remembers how to rest first.”