CHAPTER TWO
JACK
“I’m dying here! You people don’t understand, I need my medication!”
Mr. Henderson hasn’t stopped complaining since we loaded him.
Fifty-eight years old, chronic back pain, and mad as hell his primary care provider won’t refill his oxy script.
Currently thrashing on our gurney like we’re torturing him, despite waiting for us at his door and walking just fine to the ambulance.
“Nearly there, Mr. Henderson,” I tell him for the tenth time. “Just a few more minutes.”
“This is medical negligence! I’ll sue every last one of you!”
Baz catches my eye in the rearview mirror, fighting a smirk. “Guy’s a real piece of work, Kiwi. Says the bumps are aggravating his ‘delicate condition.’”
“Delicate as a concrete slab, more like,” I mutter, checking the monitor. Vitals rock steady, of course. “Bloke’s got lawyers on speed dial, apparently.”
As Metro General comes into view, my mind shifts to what’s waiting for us. Or rather, who. Mitchell.
Sophia Mitchell . Not Bentley anymore.
We punch in the EMS door code and wheel Mr. Henderson through the automatic doors, the ER humming with its usual controlled chaos.
I’ve seen her dozens of times before—quick handoffs, professional nods, the occasional shared eye roll over difficult patients.
But today, after that radio correction, I’m actually looking.
Trying to reconcile the voice with the person I thought I knew.
She’s at the charge nurse’s station, on the phone, one hand gesturing decisively. Dark hair pulled back severely, all sharp angles and intense focus. Then she looks up, and I catch her eyes properly; startling blue under the fluorescent lights, scanning everything, missing nothing.
Something’s different. Same competent charge nurse, but there’s new armor there. Weight on her shoulders that wasn’t there before.
“Medic 405,” I announce as we approach. “Got your fifty-eight-year-old male, chronic back pain, demanding transport.”
She nods, gaze direct. “Mr. Henderson, I presume?” Her voice is exactly as it was on the radio, just without the electronic distortion. That hint of warmth still there, buried under layers of professionalism.
“That’s the one. Vitals are still stable, though he’d have you believe he’s at death’s door.”
A flicker of what might be amusement crosses her lips before it vanishes. “We’ll find him a nice comfortable chair in triage, then. Thanks, Jack.”
She uses my first name. Just like I’d used hers—Soph—on the radio. The thought sends an unexpected jolt through me.
Before I can respond, Dr. Lee appears—tall, dark-haired, looking like he’s stepped off a medical drama. “Everything alright here, Sophia? Need me to charm this gentleman into compliance?” He winks at her, then turns to me with casual disinterest. “Nice accent, by the way. You from Down Under?”
I manage not to wince visibly. “Otago, actually, Doctor. New Zealand.”
“Oh, same thing, right?” He grins. “I’ve been to Sydney once. Loved seeing all the Sheilas on Bondi Beach.” He pronounces it “BOO-ahndy BAY-ch,” drawing out the syllables like he’s auditioning for a Crocodile Dundee reboot.
Baz gives me his familiar smirk. Nothing worse than being mistaken for an Aussie when you’re a Kiwi—it’d be like confusing a Canadian for an American, only with a few hundred more years of rivalry packed in.
Sophia doesn’t react to Lee’s comment, just raises one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “I’ve got it, Dr. Lee. Perhaps you could check and make sure Bay One is ready for the trauma inbound?”
Her tone is polite, but the dismissal is crystal clear. Lee grins, unbothered, and wanders off.
She turns back to us. “Alright, bring Mr. Henderson to triage bay three.” Her blue eyes linger on me for a fraction of a second. “Thanks again, Medic 405.”
“Anytime, Miss Mitchell.” I let warmth creep into my tone, acknowledging the name change with slight emphasis. “Happy to help. Chur .”
Her eyes flicker at the Kiwi slang—“chur” being our catch-all expression of thanks, agreement, or general goodwill. A recognition that I’ve noticed the name change? Then she’s turning away, directing a passing nurse, all business again.
Back in the rig, Baz lets out a low whistle. “Man, Mitchell doesn’t mess around, does she? And she totally shut down Dr. Pretty Boy. Heard he’ll try to charm anything in scrubs now that he’s finally got that attending money rolling in.”
“She knows her stuff,” I agree, but I’m thinking about those blue eyes, the new weight in them.
“Too bad we don’t hit Metro more,” Baz stretches as he drives. “All the crazy stuff happens there or downtown at University. Station 5’s getting to be a real snooze-fest, you know? Not enough action.”
He’s right. Station 5 is relatively cushy—routine transports, nursing home calls. Meanwhile, the crews from Station 2—like Medic 402—they’re here constantly. Real emergencies, actual challenges.
The kind of runs where you’d see Mitchell regularly. See her enough to maybe understand what changed. What put that armor up.
“Yeah,” I say, mostly to myself. “Might be time for a bit of a change.”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing, mate. Just thinking.”
As we pull away, I catch a glimpse of her through the glass doors. Same competent charge nurse, handling everything thrown at her. But now I’m noticing something else—a weariness, maybe, or something heavier she’s carrying that I hadn’t seen before.
Sophia Mitchell. Brilliant blue eyes, runs a tight ship, and definitely not from Australia. All great attributes.
Might be worth taking a tiki-tour through those transfer policies after all. Station 2 runs to Metro daily.
For professional development, obviously. Wouldn’t want to get too bored or out of practice.
Nothing to do with wanting to understand what put that weight on her shoulders.
Nothing at all.