Chapter 4
Chapter Four
COLE
Something was off about the surgical bay.
It was cavernous and eerily quiet where monitors should beep and techs should murmur. I hovered over the draped form on the table, my hands moving through prep motions for a procedure I had no memory of scheduling and wasn’t even sure what I was here to do.
My fingers groped for a scalpel. The instrument tray was empty. I yanked open a drawer, found it bare. Then another. When I touched the patient, my latex gloves came away slick and crimson red.
What the…
“I need some help in here,” I called, turning toward the door.
Harper Sutton stood just in the doorway, arms folded tight across her chest. Not moving, not speaking. Just watching me fail.
My eyes flew open into darkness and my bedroom came into focus. I inhaled deeply, exhaling slowly to calm my racing nerves as the nightmare dissolved.
I reached for my phone on the nightstand: 4 AM. I tossed back the covers, swung my feet to the floor, and shuffled to the bathroom where I pulled on gym clothes, brushed my teeth, ran a comb through my hair.
Then I headed downstairs, grabbing my keys and wallet from the kitchen counter before stepping outside.
The ten-minute drive to the gym wound through empty streets still slick with overnight rain. My headlights tracked a small animal skulking between parked cars; beyond that, only distant taillights.
I left the radio off. I didn’t need the noise.
This gym wasn’t anything special, a twenty-four-hour chain that lured people in with pizza and upsold them on memberships. Not saying I fell for the gimmick, but I did appreciate the post-workout slice every so often.
At this hour, the space held just three patrons: a woman pounding away on a treadmill with her headphones on, and two men hovering over free weights like long-time residents. No one made eye contact. That was the whole point of getting to the gym early.
I claimed my favorite rowing machine, still smelling faintly of bleach cleaner.
I set the resistance and began pulling. The first few strokes were rough—my shoulders stiff from yesterday’s surgeries and a game of pick-up basketball.
Soon, the motion fell into a steady cadence: pull, breathe, release, breathe.
The cables resisted each stroke and I leaned into it.
By minute fifteen, sweat traced down my temples, and my shoulders were on fire.
This was the only part of my day that made sense. Effort in, result out.
After thirty minutes, I moved to the leg machines. My muscles screamed with every rep but my brain finally shut up. When I finished, my legs were shaking and the burn in my calves was welcome.
I did a half-hearted stretch, spent a few minutes letting the heat seep into my muscles in the sauna, and then headed home. I cracked the windows as I drove, the frigid air drying the sweat on my body, making the rest of me feel wired and alive.
A few minutes later, I was standing in the kitchen, staring at the counter and weighing my options: eggs or a protein shake. The shake would be easier. More protein too.
I grabbed the blender and tossed in frozen berries, a banana, pineapple, and a scoop of powder that claimed it tasted like vanilla, though it never really passed for the real thing.
I heard a key turning in the lock and the security system beeping. Ms. Patricia’s footsteps sounded through the living room, heading straight for me.
“Cole Terrence Vaughn.”
My whole government name. I didn’t turn but did greet her as always. “Morning, Ms. Patricia.”
She moved through my kitchen like she owned it.
At sixty-two years old, she was spry and lively with caramel-toned skin, hair always pulled tight in a headwrap.
Today it was a burnt orange, deep and rich, matching her scrubs and those battered Crocs she wore during her overnight nursing home shifts.
She zeroed in on the blender. “Tell me you are not about to have that mess for breakfast.”
I shrugged, my thumb pressing the button. The blender roared loud enough to cover anything else she might have said. When it cut out, I poured the shake into a glass and stuck a straw in.
“Just had a workout. I need the protein.”
She shook her head. “That doesn’t stick to the ribs and give you energy. Stew chicken is also protein. I left you plenty last night.”
“Mmhmm. It was good.”
“Was. You ate it all?”
“I didn’t know I was supposed to portion it out. I was hungry.”
She tugged the refrigerator open, peered inside, then clicked her tongue, already disappointed in whatever she saw. “Did you make that grocery list I asked for?”
She already knew the answer. I took a long sip of my shake and tried not to grimace. Thank goodness I’d tossed in some fruit; otherwise, it would have been straight-up chalk.
“Cole…”
“I’ll do it,” I said before she could get rolling.
She folded her arms and glared. “I’m going to the market today, and if you don’t tell me what you want, you’re getting what I think you need.”
“That’s fine.” I set the glass down.
“No, it’s not fine,” she shot back, planting her fist on her hip. “Because you’ll complain that I bought the wrong kind of chicken, or the ground beef isn’t lean enough, or the bread isn’t the kind you like—even though you never tell me which kind you like.”
She pointed straight at a chair and demanded, “Sit. I’m making you breakfast, and you’re making that list before you leave.”
“I have to be at the hospital by seven,” I tried.
She raised her eyebrows. “Then you had better get to it, hadn’t you?”
Ms. Patricia had spent years running a household with four kids, six grandkids, and a schedule that would break most people.
For the past few years, she’d been coming to clean, do laundry, and make sure I didn’t forget to eat.
She was old enough to be my aunt, if not my mother, and she did not play.
I sat.
She cracked eggs into a bowl one-handed, whisked them with hot sauce and black pepper, and poured the mixture into a buttery pan.
I opened my phone and checked the day. Rounds with interns, ICU coverage, then the weekly department meeting. The evening was wide open, which meant paperwork.
“You’re frowning at that phone like it hurt your feelings.”
I looked up as she slid a plate in front of me with eggs, fluffy and golden, and toast just the right side of crisp. It smelled like actual food, not the shake I’d been choking down.
“Work,” I said.
She placed a glass of orange juice in front of me. “You need a little sugar and some citric acid. Eat. And write that list.”
A notepad and pen appeared, sliding toward my elbow.
I picked up the pen, tried to think. “Eggs. Bread. Chicken. Ground beef…”
She stopped me with a look. “Don’t be an asshole, young man. What cut of chicken? Breast? Thigh?”
“The kind you usually get.”
She was relentless. “Boneless? Bone-in?”
“Whatever’s on sale, Ms. P. You’re the one cooking it.”
She made a little disgusted noise that said I was beyond help. “You’re the one eating it, Cole! Be specific or I’m buying you turkey bacon and almond milk.”
That was a threat. I hated both.
With a sigh, I started over and made the list detailed enough to pass inspection. The eggs were legitimately good—I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until I started eating.
Ms. Patricia perched at the kitchen island with her coffee, watching me over the rim. “Cole, dear. You seem stressed. Tell Ms. Patricia what’s goin’ on.”
“I’m fine, Ms. P.”
“So, we lie now?” She gave me the side-eye and her classic head tilt. “You’ve been grumpy and quiet for days. I’m not just the housekeeper. I notice things.”
I cleaned my plate and didn’t bother answering because Ms. Patricia could spot a lie from the driveway.
“Is it a woman?”
My heart lurched. “It’s never a woman.”
“Mmmmm…” She tilted her head, giving me the look she reserved for when she knew I was hiding something. “You’ve got a look that calls you a liar.”
“I do not have a look,” I said a little too quickly. After a beat, asked, “What look?”
“Men get a kind of look when they’re thinking about someone special.” She smiled, took a sip, watched me. “Though sometimes that look means they’re about to do something I wouldn’t approve of.”
“Well, I am a man, so…” I stood to take my empty plate to the sink. “I need to get ready. Full day.”
“Will you have dinner at home tonight?”
“Don’t know. Depends on how the day goes, but you know me—whatever you leave, I’ll eat.”
She picked up the notepad and checked my list. “Much better. Not great, but better.” She folded it and dropped it in her purse. “Cole?”
She waited until I turned to face her.
“Whatever’s bothering you at that hospital—don’t let them make you question yourself. You worked hard to get here. Fight to stay here.”
I didn’t have a good reply. I gave her a nod and headed out, grateful for the advice even if I wasn’t sure how to use it.
The morning rhythm was already in full swing when I stepped through the doors at RMC. Residents clustered by the coffee station, hands wrapped around paper cups, someone’s pager shrieking down the corridor and a low-grade chaos that buzzed beneath it all. I offered a few nods but didn’t slow down.
My office was utilitarian, nothing more.
Desk, chair, computer, a set of medical texts filling a shelf for appearances’ sake.
I hadn’t cracked them open in years—not since every answer I needed was a click away.
No photos, no mementos. Just a spot to read charts, type notes, and occasionally dodge an administrator if the day called for it.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. A quick glance told me I had a text.
Dr. Webb:
My office when you get in.
I stared at the message. Webb was seasoned and level-headed. We’d worked side by side for years with never a problem, but if he wanted to see me face-to-face, it wasn’t a social call.
I stood and headed upstairs.