Chapter 1

Chance

The rumble of my Harley echoes off the hospital walls as I cut the engine outside the emergency department. My boots hit the pavement in front of the sliding glass doors with a solid thud. Standing next to my bike, I pull off my helmet and shake out my hair, feeling eyes on me—some wide with fear, others narrowed in what might be appreciation. The beast between my legs might as well be a fiery stallion for all the attention it commands.

I stride into the emergency department, leather creaking with each step, and rather than checking in at the desk, I find a corner seat in the waiting area to observe. I watch, silent and still, as the scene unfolds around me.

A few minutes later, a man bursts through the sliding doors, his face swollen and contorted in pain. His cries are primal, unfiltered by the stoicism expected of grown men. I can't help but assess his condition. Wasps seem the likely culprits, and based on the swelling, anaphylaxis is a threat. He begs for relief as the staff springs into action and whisks him into the back.

Not far behind him comes a woman cradling her abdomen, flinching with each movement. A darkening bruise mars her left eye, giving voice to a story she refuses to tell. Her pain is two-fold, part physical, part deep within. She avoids eye contact, her shame a shroud around her. But the domestic abuse is not her fault, no matter what the abuser tells her.

She, too, has been swept off to the back when a young boy, no more than eight, is ushered in by frantic parents. His lips are tinged blue, and his chest heaves in a futile quest for air as he wheezes. Asthma —a thief in the night, robbing this child of the breath most take for granted.

The team once again springs into action, and I nod in approval. Patients are quickly triaged and moved out of the waiting area. This is a good sign.

Then the wail of arriving ambulances cuts through the hum of activity, a reminder that trauma never sleeps. Outside, red and white lights flash while, inside, nurses and doctors move with hurried efficiency. But there's a tightness in their shoulders, a brusqueness in their voices.

It's clear they're stretched thin, worn down by a system pushed to its limits. I sit back, my gaze sweeping over the controlled chaos, already diagnosing, planning. This is where I'm meant to be—where I'm needed. My purpose here couldn't be clearer. They just don't know it yet.

I step back out the doors of the ED and wander the other parts of the hospital, watching. People eye me everywhere I go, probably unsure about my leather attire. Mercy Hospital is the largest in Vancouver, and as I move past the information desk, I watch the receptionists give directions via the vividly colored map behind them.

On down the hall, I push open a door that reads Medical Staff Only and step into the doctors' locker room. It's a quiet sanctuary away from the bustle of the hospital and the emergency department. A faint echo of voices catches my attention as I head for the bathroom.

Two doctors converse, their words muffled by the row of lockers between us. "…can't keep switching like this," one gripes. "Eleanor Thompson finally left; whoever takes over had better put an end to these night-day flips."

"Agreed," chimes the other. "It's killing our circadian rhythms."

A smirk tugs at my lips, unbidden. They have no idea that their potential savior stands just a wall of lockers away. Eleanor's shoes are big, but I'm ready to fill them—and stabilize their schedules too. I shake off the amusement and make a mental note—figure out what's up with these rotating shifts and see what we can do to change them. And I should let the staff think this is their idea. I can do that.

I finish in the bathroom and emerge to sit on the cool metal of a bench, still observing. The two doctors pass, deep in conversation about hospital politics. Their white coats are pristine, names embroidered over their hearts. Dr. G. Martin and Dr. K. Johns. They embody the medical profession as I know it—dedicated, weary, hopeful.

"This is the men's staff locker room. Though you're welcome to use the restroom." Dr. Martin nods toward the hallway, mistaking my presence for confusion. He looks me over briefly, an outsider intruding on sacred ground. "But it's really meant for staff, so don't linger."

"Thanks," I reply with a nod, my voice low and even.

Alone again, I turn to the row of lockers and find one unclaimed. Methodically, I strip off my heavy leather jacket, the vest, and the bulky chaps that have been my armor against the road's bite. Once they're stowed away—a symbolic shedding of skin—I'm left in black jeans and a T-shirt. I feel more like the doctor I am.

With a glance at the mirror—a stranger's reflection staring back, dark blond hair, blue eyes, a new beginning—I square my shoulders and step out into the fluorescent-lit corridors. There's work to be done, changes to be made, and lives to save. Mercy Hospital doesn't know it yet, but its new chief has arrived. And I'm ready to make my mark.

"Major MVA coming in!" The nurse in charge's voice cuts through the din as I turn back toward the ED. "Eight cars involved. Helo en route, six minutes with criticals."

The room tenses, bodies and minds shifting gears. The staff braces for impact as they prepare to receive the wounded.

From my vantage point outside of triage, I watch Dr. G. Martin and Dr. K. Johns and the teams that assist them spring into action—fresh paper gowns, rubber gloves, goggles, and for some, bands to hold hair tight from the gusts of wind created by the helicopter. They anticipate the worst, ready to offer their best. The helicopter's distant whir—the herald of what's to come—grows louder, more insistent.

The double doors burst open, with gurneys rolling in. The doctors are immediately on their feet, dealing with the broken bodies. "—two majors, two minors. Sideswiped by a semi skidding on Highway One and crashed into the concrete barrier," the paramedic reports.

"What do we have?" Dr. Martin commands, his voice steady as he assesses the damage on the first gurney off the helo.

"Head, neck, and chest. Possible pelvic injury. He's had three liters of O-neg. Blood pressure sixty-three. Pulse one-forty and thready."

They move to one of the triage rooms.

The next victim is pulled off the helicopter. "She's been unconscious the entire time. Pulse one-fifty. Sharp laceration and fracture of the right femur," announces the next paramedic.

"Let's get vitals, people." Dr. Johns directs the team with a calm authority that belies the adrenaline undoubtedly rushing through him. There's no hesitation in his touch as he begins his examination, fingers trained to find fractures beneath the skin .

I stand back, itching to join the fray. But this was only supposed to be a peek at how the team works and what I'll be walking into in a few days. For now, I commit every detail to memory, each movement and decision cataloged for future reference.

The accident victims continue to arrive, and I can't hold back any longer. I slide into a paper gown. My gaze locks on a head injury first—a laceration that's more bark than bite—but the abdominal swelling whispers of deeper problems.

"Merde," I mutter under my breath as my hands probe gently, expertly, feeling what shouldn't be there. My guess is the spleen has ruptured, unnoticed by paramedics too overworked or too rushed to catch it. A life-threatening mistake, hiding in plain sight.

"Hey—" I snag the nearest nurse, urgency sharpening my voice. "We need a surgeon, stat!" No time for niceties; there's blood pooling where it shouldn't, life ebbing away with every delayed second.

The nurse nods, reaches for the phone, and calls surgery to tell them they have someone on the way. She moves like she does this every day—swift, decisive. They're good here; I'll give them that. And I look forward to making them better.

But there's no rest for the weary, not today. Another body rolls through the doors, this one with pale skin and pinpoint pupils—a drug overdose, young, too young. I reach out to steady the gurney as they transfer him to a bed. The ambo driver reports having administered Narcan three minutes ago, yet he's not coming around. But if we're quick enough, we can still save him.

"Let's get more Narcan," I call. This dance is familiar, even if the floor is new. "Keep pressure on that wound!" I shout back at the other patient's bedside as I pivot to face this new challenge. Two lives hang in the balance, and I'll do anything I can to get them through this.

"Stay with me," I urge the boy as his eyes flutter. I spray another dose of Narcan into his nose. "I need an IV kit." The kid's veins are collapsed, likely due to his addiction, so I need to keep pushing Narcan every two or three minutes.

I'm murmuring instructions in French under my breath, a habit from years of trauma work, when a nurse rushes past. She's got a look on her face that spells trouble, and I catch the tail end of her words as she nearly collides with a man in scrubs. "—speaking French and working on patients." My hands don't stop—they can't afford to—but my attention splits as Dr. G. Martin approaches, his brows knitted together.

"Excuse me, you can't be back here," he says, firm hands pressing against my chest. His voice is authoritative, brooking no argument.

"Je suis fine," I respond, catching myself midsentence and switching to English. "I'm fine. I'm where I need to be."

Dr. Martin isn't convinced. He's already motioning for security, clearly not used to being disobeyed. Three broad-shouldered men approach, the air around them crackling. The radio squawks, a dispatcher's voice calling for police backup.

"Wait," I say, and thankfully, something in my voice gives them pause. I reach into my back pocket, fingers closing around the familiar edges of my old business card. It feels like another lifetime, but it's the key I need right now. I present it to Dr. Martin, who takes it with a skeptical frown.

"Chance Devereaux, Le Directeur, Salle d'Urgente," he reads aloud. Then his eyes flick up to the header. "Santé Montréal Hospital?" He looks up at me. "We appreciate you stepping in, and your emergency room experience, but you're a long way from Montreal."

"I'm the new chief of the emergency department here at Mercy," I tell him. The weight of those words hangs heavy in the air. Silence falls, broken only by the beeping of monitors and the distant sound of ambulance sirens. Everyone around me seems stunned, grappling with the reality that the stranger in black jeans and a T-shirt is more than just an interloper.

"Chief?" Dr. Martin repeats, the skepticism in his voice giving way to something akin to respect— or maybe just surprise. "Why didn't we know you were starting today?"

"Because I don't start until Monday. I just came to observe today."

Dr. Martin nods as a nurse calls him away. "Carry on, then, I suppose," he says as he vanishes behind a curtain. The tension in the air diffuses slowly. Staff return to their stations, and I find myself fading into the background once again. I return my attention to the patients in front of me. Bleeding seems under control on one, and I administer more Narcan to the other. As I finish and hand off the patients, I hear my name called.

"Dr. Devereaux?" I turn to see a woman extending her hand, her grip firm and sure. "I'm Jessica Scott, nurse in charge on this shift." There's an edge to her tone, not unkind but weathered by years of triage and decisions made under pressure.

"Nice to meet you, Jessica," I reply, taking in her alert eyes and the set of her shoulders—ready for whatever comes through those doors.

She guides me through the controlled mayhem, pointing out the key players on her team. We stop first at a young woman with honey-colored hair tucked under a scrub cap. "This is Dr. Cordelia Johns. We call her Dr. Cordelia because her brother and father also work here. She's one of our hospital pediatricians."

"Dr. Cordelia." I nod, noting the gentle way she speaks to a small boy clutching a stuffed bear. Her eyes are kind, the sort that see pain and offer solace without words.

"Her brother, Dr. Kent Johns, you've already met," Jessica continues as we pass a man whose focus doesn't stray from the chart in his hands.

Siblings in the same battlefield , I muse.

"Dr. Harlan Mitchell," she announces next.

The surgeon looks up from stitching a wound with a grunt, his hands never pausing in their intricate dance.

Nina Jacobs, a staff nurse, offers a weary smile as we pass, her scrubs splashed with the day's labor. And then there's Dr. Christian Bradford, whose gaze flicks to me with disdain.

"Don't take it personally. He's always an asshole," Jessica says dryly.

"Best cardiologist in the country," I add. "Comes with the territory."

The shift stretches on, a blur of faces and names, ailments, and whispered stories. I'm able to help out here and there, and when it finally winds down, I feel exhaustion in my bones. But it's the good kind, the kind that comes from diving headfirst into the fray.

I return to the locker room and redress in my leathers, ready to return to the quiet apartment I've rented across town.

"Dr. Devereaux!" Dr. Griffin waves me over as I step out into the cool, late-July, Vancouver evening. Beside him, Dr. Kent Johns offers a half smile.

"Barney's Pub is right across the street, and it's a staff hangout," Griffin says, jerking his thumb toward the warm glow of neon on the other side of the road. "Care to join us?"

"Sure," I agree. I don't have anywhere to go, and I'm curious about these men outside the sterilized confines of the emergency department.

"Welcome to Vancouver," Griffin says as we jaywalk to the pub. "When did you arrive?"

"Yesterday, and I'm just getting the lay of the land," I tell them. "My first day isn't until next week." New beginnings, new challenges—Mercy Hospital is already shaping up to be more than just a job. This blank slate is mine to color, and I'm here to make it the best it can be.

We settle into a booth, the wooden seat groaning beneath our collective weight. The air smells of malt and spirits, with a hint of fried food lingering. Céline would hate this place. That thought comes to me unbidden. I hate that I'm thinking about her, but I'm still adjusting to not having her as part of my life. I do like getting to make my own choices. She'd have me at some expensive restaurant or club. This is pure comfort .

The server places three pints in front of us—all black and tans. Griffin picks up a glass. "This is our usual, but if you want something else…"

I lift the glass, and we clink them together.

Kent eyes me over the rim of his pint, foam sticking to his upper lip. "So, Devereaux," he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "how's Mercy stacking up against your old stomping grounds at Santé Montréal?"

I take a slow pull from my drink, the cool liquid settling my thoughts. "So far, it's not too shabby. But back in Quebec, we had the West End Gang, Montreal Mafia, and Hells Angels to keep us on our toes." I shrug as their eyebrows shoot up. "Keeps the job interesting."

Griffin chuckles, shaking his head. "You're not in Quebec anymore, that's for sure." He leans forward, elbows on the table. "Got a place to crash? Vancouver's rental market can be brutal."

"Found myself a legal basement apartment in a West Van neighborhood," I say casually, tracing the condensation down my glass. "Good view, quiet enough."

"Ah, but the Lions Gate Bridge during rush hour is a nightmare," Kent interjects, his tone almost cautionary.

"That's why I ride a Harley," I reply. There's freedom on two wheels that you don't get behind a steering wheel.

"Ever treat someone with road rash?" Griffin asks.

"Of course," I answer, my voice even, recalling the gravel-embedded wounds, the smell of antiseptic battling with the iron tang of blood. "But I like my odds."

Griffin shakes his head. "Motorcycles are donor cycles."

There's a moment of silence, and then the conversation shifts to the men's partners. They're both in committed relationships, and after they've finished their drinks, they need to get to them.

After they leave, I lean back against the wood of the booth, a half-drained pint of black and tan in hand, and scan the room with casual interest. Barney's is alive with the energy of unwinding. I'm new here, but not unwelcome. I like this place. I like it a lot.

A group of nurses, still in their scrubs, huddles at the bar, stealing glances my way. Their laughter is a melody that rises above the noise of the room. Eventually, one of them breaks away from the pack, her hair the color of autumn leaves, and approaches with a confidence that speaks to more than just a few casual encounters.

"Dr. Devereaux, right?" Her voice wraps around my title like she's trying it on for size. "My name is Mandy Howard. I heard you made quite the entrance today." She touches my bicep.

I offer a tight smile. "Just doing what needs to be done."

She leans in, close enough that I catch the hint of her floral perfume, and her hand grazes mine—a deliberate touch hidden as an accident. "Well, if you ever need a tour of Vancouver beyond the hospital walls, I'm your girl."

"Appreciate the offer," I say, tilting my glass toward her before taking a sip, keeping the exchange light, non-committal. Even if I was interested, I'm not ready to date. I was with Céline for ten years. And who knows, maybe she's going to realize she made a mistake not moving with me to Vancouver…

Mandy lingers, her body language an open invitation, but after a moment more of flirtatious banter, she rejoins her friends, sending me a look over her shoulder.

I turn back to the room, my mind not on the offers or the allure, but on the lay of the land—of Mercy Hospital, of this city. Every place has its rhythms, its secrets. From the thrum of motorcycle engines beneath me on the open road to the pulsing heartbeat of an ED, it's all about learning the patterns, anticipating the next move.

I finish my black and tan and signal for another. As the night stretches on, I stay rooted in my corner, once again a silent sentinel, watching the ebb and flow of the bar and the hospital staff that come and go.