CHAPTER SIX
JACK
“No, Mum, I’m not ‘playing paramedic.’” I wedge the phone between my shoulder and ear while measuring coffee grounds. “I am a paramedic. Have been for three years now.”
“Such a waste, Jackson. Nearly thirty-three years old and still running around in an ambulance.” Her voice carries that particular mix of disappointment and affection that only mothers can manage.
“You could be running the Wanaka vineyard by now. Your father’s been managing both properties, and the new Pinot harvest—”
“Dad’s doing fine without me.” I dump the grounds into my ancient coffee maker. “How’s the weather in Otago?”
“Don’t change the subject. If you must insist on this healthcare… phase …you could at least work for Te Whatu Ora back home. They’re always looking for flight medics at Milford Sound for all the tourists. Then you’d still be doing your ‘real work’ but be where you belong .”
“Mum—”
“Your sister Lily’s getting married soon. To Oliver Ashford. You remember him? The cardiac surgeon from Dunedin Hospital? Lovely boy. Perhaps you could—”
“Perhaps I could what? Bring a date?” I think of sharp blue eyes and a voice like good whiskey. “Working on it.”
“Oh?” Her tone perks up immediately. “Who is she? What does she do?”
“She’s in healthcare.” True enough. “Listen, Mum, I’ve got shift in an hour. Give Dad my best, yeah?”
“The charity auction is next month. In Queenstown. You could at least—”
“Love you too. Chur .”
I end the call before she can mention the family’s private jet or the new villa overlooking Lake Wakatipu. Three years, and she still thinks this is some kind of rebellion phase. Maybe it started that way—the black sheep of the McKenzie family choosing sirens over vineyards and sheep stations.
But somewhere between my first life saved and watching real people do real work for real reasons, it became who I am.
The coffee tastes like burnt rubber, but it’s mine. No imported beans, no family crest on the mug. Just me and my modest apartment and the job I actually love.
My phone buzzes.
Rodriguez: Ready for another shift in paradise, Kiwi?
Paradise. Right. Medic 402 runs through some of the roughest neighborhoods in the city. Gang violence, overdoses, domestics gone wrong. Yesterday alone we had two stabbings and a jumper from the bridge.
Still better than sitting in a boardroom, pretending to care about profit margins.
I grab my gear and head out. Two days since Sophia Mitchell said my name over the public radio channel. Two days of replaying that “ Uhh…Jack ?” and the way her voice caught on it.
Time to see if she’s still blushing about it.
Rodriguez is already at the station, checking the rig. “Alright, Romeo McKenzie, you ready to get back out there? Maybe get to see Sophiaaaaa?”
I tried to stifle a grin, unsuccessfully. “She was just being polite. You know. Professional courtesy.”
“Right. That’s why you transferred to 402, huh? ‘Professional courtesy’?”
I don’t answer, but Rodriguez laughs anyway. “Well, did she shut you down? Mitchell doesn’t exactly have a reputation for being…approachable.”
“Haven’t asked anything to be shut down from.”
“Yet.”
Fair point.
Our first three calls are routine—elderly fall, anxiety attack, minor MVA. But the fourth…
“Medic 402, respond to 1542 Oak Street, apartment 3B. Thirty-four-year-old male, reports severe abdominal pain, states pain medication isn’t working.”
Rodriguez groans. “That’s Thompson. Third time this week.”
I know the type. Chronic pain patient, probably legitimate originally, now caught in the cycle of seeking stronger meds. Doctors won’t prescribe, so they call 911 hoping the ER will cave.
“Sweet as,” I say, flipping on the lights. “Let’s go help Mr. Thompson.”
“Help him find a new dealer, maybe,” Rodriguez mutters.
But when we arrive, Thompson’s genuinely in distress. Sweating, clutching his stomach, rocking back and forth on his couch.
“G’morning, Mr. Thompson.” I kneel beside him, voice calm. “Tell me about this pain.”
“It’s…different. Not like usual. Sharp. Here.” He points to his belly, right lower quadrant.
Rodriguez rolls his eyes, but I’m already doing the assessment. Rebound tenderness. Guarding. Slight fever.
“When did you last eat?”
“Two days ago? Maybe three? The pain…”
“Right. Let’s get you to hospital, yeah? This might be more than your usual.”
We load him up, and I’m thinking appendicitis, maybe early perforation. Rodriguez drives while I establish IV access.
I pull out my phone to call in the report, and despite myself, I’m hoping Sophia’s working the desk today. Her voice over the radio is one thing, but an actual phone conversation…
I dial Metro General’s direct line, pulse quickening slightly as I wait for someone to pick up.
Thompson moans. “They think I’m drug seeking. They always think…”
“Not today, mate,” I assure him while the phone rings. “Today you’ve got something real, and they’ll see that.”