Chapter 28

Kent

The double doors slam open, creating a gust of antiseptic air as the paramedics wheel in another case—a forty-four-year-old male, pale and sweating, clutching his chest. When will they get the message that a Tuesday night should be quiet? I step forward, my stethoscope already dangling from my neck, ready for action.

"Doc, we've got a possible MI," one of the paramedics announces. "Blood pressure is thirty-five to flatline."

"Let's get him on a monitor, stat," I say, my tone steady despite the adrenaline that's starting to spike.

As they transfer him onto the bed, I glance at the heart monitor. The rhythm looks regular, no obvious ST elevations, but I'm not taking any chances. "I want a full cardiac workup—EKG, enzymes, the works," I order, clicking boxes on the patient's electronic medical record. "Keep an eye on him." I don't wait for a response; there's no time. I'm already moving on to the next curtain.

"Dr. Johns?" The nurse's voice is strained.

When I enter the next curtain, a woman sits writhing on the gurney, her face contorted in agony. "Kidney stones," she gasps between clenched teeth.

"Let's get you some relief," I murmur, almost reflexively. My hands are confident, practiced as I draw up a dose of morphine. "This will help with the pain." Her grateful nod is all the thanks I need. "And we'll need a CT to confirm the size and location of the stones," I add, my voice a calm counterpoint to her shallow breathing. The nurse nods, already on it.

"Thank you, doctor," the woman whispers after the medication begins to take effect.

"Of course," I reply, offering a reassuring smile. It's these moments, however fleeting, that remind me why I chose this life. Despite the chaos, the endless stream of patients, each person here needs my help, relies on my decisions.

"Kent!" Another call snaps me back to reality. There's never any rest in the ED. I turn on my heel and stride toward the next challenge.

I approach curtain three, where a middle-aged man sits on the edge of the stretcher, his arm wrapped in gauze. His eyes are wide with a mix of pain and disbelief as he recounts his bizarre tale to an incredulous nurse. "I'm telling you, it just snapped at me!" he insists, gesturing wildly with his uninjured hand toward the offending house plant, now safely contained in a biohazard bag.

I stifle a chuckle. The ED never fails to surprise. "Let's make sure there's no serious damage," I say, examining the puncture marks. But really, this is one for psych to unravel. I scribble a note for the consult and step away, my mind already shifting gears.

The break room offers a momentary respite from the madness of the floor. It smells like homemade lasagna and chocolate cake in here, a festive atmosphere that feels worlds apart from the chaos outside. Shelly Sable, our head nurse and the woman whose impending motherhood we're celebrating, is radiant in her joy. We crowd around, plates in hand, eager for a taste of normalcy.

"Shelly, if you happen to go into labor on my watch, just know I'm ready for baby-delivery duty." I grin, raising my plastic fork in a mock salute.

"Count me in as well!" Griffin adds, ever the competitor, but with a warm smile that softens the challenge.

Shelly laughs. "I love you guys, really, but I think I'll stick to familiar faces that don't include my coworkers." She winks, and we all nod. Privacy is something we cherish.

"Fair enough," I concede, "but we'll miss having you around for an entire year."

"Make sure to visit with the little one," someone calls out, and Shelly promises she will.

A little while later, Shelly corners me near the supply closet, her brow furrowed. "Kent, how are things going?" she asks.

"Okay," I reply, adjusting a box of gloves on the shelf to avoid her piercing gaze. "I'm managing."

"Seeing anyone?" Her question is casual, but her eyes search mine for a truth I haven't even admitted to myself.

I shake my head just as my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and look at the message.

Leah: Having a rough day. Can we do dinner?

I tuck the phone away. I jump every time, hoping it's Amelia, but I've learned the hard way that this can wait. "No, I'm not seeing anyone."

"Your female friends," Shelly continues, undeterred, "they're just friends?"

"Exactly. Just friends." My affirmation feels hollow, even to my own ears.

"Is that why you're single? Because of your friends?" she probes, her intuition too keen for comfort.

"No, Shelly," I assure her, forcing a smile. "It's not them."

"All right," she nods, though I can tell she doesn't buy it. "Just checking on you."

I breathe a sigh of relief when we're interrupted by a page requesting my presence in triage. Shelly gives me a pat on the shoulder and heads back to the festivities.

Hours later, I spot Leah in the waiting area. I never texted her back. She stands when she sees me, hastily wiping her eyes. "Sorry to bother you at work," she murmurs.

"It's no trouble," I say, though my mind is still back in the emergency department…and also wondering how I've lost any semblance of boundaries.

"Could we get something to eat?" she asks.

With a sigh, I direct her to the diner across the street.

Over stale coffee and club sandwiches, Leah pours out her heartbreak, her words a torrent of pain and confusion. "…and he just doesn't want me, Kent. Why does this keep happening?"

I reach across the table, covering her hand with mine. "You'll find someone who appreciates you for who you are," I assure her.

She looks up at me through tear-stained lashes and suddenly leans over the table, pressing her lips to mine. My response is instinctive, a sharp lean back, creating a distance between us.

"Leah, I—" I start, but she's already pulling away, hurt flashing across her face.

"Why aren't you interested in me?" she demands, her voice cracking.

"I don't think of you that way. We're friends," I stammer, trying to convey both kindness and firmness.

She slumps back in the booth, her eyes brimming with fresh tears. "I just don't get it. Why can't someone choose me, just once?"

Her words sting, a painful reminder of choices I've made and those I've avoided. But right now, all I can do is be here for her, even if it's not in the way she wants.

When dinner is over, I'm not sure Leah feels any better, but I stride back into the fray of the emergency department, the emotional residue of dinner stubbornly clinging to my thoughts. I have to shake it off; there's no room for personal distractions when lives are in my hands.

"Dr. Johns," Nurse Ramirez calls out as she hands me a clipboard. "Chest-pain guy's labs came back."

"Thanks," I mutter, scanning the results. Relief washes over me as I read the familiar pattern indicative of nothing more sinister than severe indigestion. Stepping over to the patient's bedside, I find him still looking anxious, his eyes searching mine for answers.

"Good news," I begin, offering a smile. "It's not your heart. You've got some pretty bad indigestion, but that's something we can manage." I spend the next few moments explaining dietary changes and prescribing medication to help him cope. "Take it easy with the spicy foods," I advise with a light chuckle.

He nods, visibly relaxing as he thanks me.

With that settled, I move on to the next task. This time it's a young girl with a tear-stained face sitting bravely on the examination table. Her mother hovers nearby, wringing her hands with worry.

"Hey, there, champ," I say, kneeling down to be eye-level with her. "Looks like you took quite the tumble."

She nods, her bottom lip trembling. "I fell off my bike."

"Let's get you fixed up, okay?" I gently examine the cut above her eyebrow, calculating the best approach. Four stitches, that's all it'll take. I'll work carefully, making sure each stitch is placed precisely so that once healed, the scar will blend seamlessly with her brow line.

"Does it hurt?" she asks, her voice small but curious.

"Only a pinch, and then it's all over," I assure her, applying a local anesthetic before I start. Throughout my work, I keep up a steady stream of distraction—asking about her bike, her favorite color, anything to keep her mind off the needle. She's a tough cookie; she doesn't flinch once.

"All done," I announce after what feels like mere moments. "You did great."

Her mother exhales a sigh of relief, her gratitude clear as day. "Thank you, Dr. Johns."

"Remember, no rough play for a while," I remind them as they head out, the girl now sporting a brave smile.

"Four stitches," she says to her mom, a note of pride in her voice.

"Four superhero stitches," I correct with a grin, and her smile widens.

"Superhero stitches," she echoes, and they're gone, leaving me alone with the echo of her laughter and a bittersweet pang for simpler times when all it took to fix a problem was a few neat stitches and a kind word.

A few minutes later, a CT scan has confirmed what I suspected. The woman with the kidney stones needs surgery. "We'll get you admitted right away," I tell her. Her pain is dulled, but hasn't disappeared, despite the medication, and relief fills her eyes as she nods her understanding. I sign the necessary paperwork, and the personal care specialist wheels her bed toward the surgical unit.

"Take good care of her," I instruct, already pivoting toward the next crisis.

Shelly's voice cuts through the cacophony of the ER. "Incoming! Helicopter just radioed in—a GSW!"

"Prep trauma one!" I command. My heart rate kicks up, not with fear but with the adrenaline that comes with knowing every second will count. The team snaps into action, a well-oiled machine prepping for the worst while hoping for the best.

I'm at the bay when the chopper's downdraft buffets me, the roar drowning out everything else. The patient arrives, a blood-soaked gurney testament to the violence he's endured. We need to move fast.

"Bag him," I bark, pulling on gloves. "I need eight units of O-neg on standby!"

Susan Clark, my nurse, is at my side, working in tandem as we cut away the remnants of his clothes, revealing a grim tableau of shredded flesh and oozing blood. His abdomen is a mess.

"Pulse is one-sixty and thready," she reports grimly as we work.

"Intubate," I say, grabbing the laryngoscope. It's like muscle memory, even as my brain ticks over the possibilities, the potential complications. The tube slides in, and the hiss of oxygen confirms it's placed correctly.

"Thoracotomy tray," I call out, the words feeling like they belong to someone else as I concentrate on the task at hand. We need to see where the bullet has gone, assess the damage before the surgeon takes over.

"Ready for chest tube insertion," someone says, another pair of hands joining the fray.

"Let's give him a chance." I mutter under my breath. This is what it all boils down to—fighting for a stranger's life, holding onto hope when it seems futile. And somehow, amid the chaos, that's exactly what we do.

In just a little while, he's stable. "Get him up to surgery," I direct, and the nurses make that happen, even as I turn toward the next emergency.

The haze of the night's exertions lifts slightly as the morning crew filters in, their steps brisk with the fresh energy of a new shift. I feel every hour of the long night in my bones as I help my nurse transfer the last of our patients into their care. Charts are handed over, vitals are communicated, and the steady rhythm of the hospital marches on.

"Take care of yourself, Shelly," I say, pulling her into a brief hug. "And make sure to bring the little one by, okay?"

She smiles, a maternal glow softening her features. "I will, Kent." She plants a gentle kiss on my cheek, a sisterly gesture laden with years of shared trials and triumphs in these halls. "And when I come back, I want to hear some good news from you. I hope to hear you've found a nice girl and you're getting married."

Her words, meant to be light and hopeful, strike a chord deep within me. As I watch her walk away, the weight of her statement settles like an anchor in my chest. Marriage, commitment… It all seems like a far-off dream. But not an impossible one. I know that much.

Amelia.

Her name echoes in my mind, a siren call to a ship that's been drifting aimlessly. She's out there, somewhere beyond these walls that reek of antiseptic and pain, living a life I'm no longer part of. Yet the thought of her sparks something, a yearning, a resolve.

I need to get her back.

It's not just a fleeting wish anymore; it's a necessity, a mission I have to embark on. But how? The question looms large as I strip off my white coat and discard it, along with the layers of the night's traumas.

For now, though, it's time to recharge—to rest and regroup. There's another night shift waiting for me tomorrow, after all. But soon, perhaps there'll be an opportunity to figure out the first step in finding Amelia again.

As I exit the ED into the crisp morning air, I let myself imagine for a moment that next time I see Shelly, I'll have more to share than just the usual war stories from the emergency department. I'll have a story of my own, a story of reconciliation and love rekindled.

That's a story worth fighting for.