Chapter 22

Chance

The heart monitor goes flat. I work quickly to stabilize another overdose victim—our third today. "Another Narcan, stat!" The command leaves my lips without thought, instinct taking over where training ends. The nurses spring to action, a well-oiled machine amidst the bedlam.

As I glance at the clock, I realize Lucy and I have dinner planned tonight. A small smile breaks through the gravity of the moment. She's become the unexpected center in my life. With her, it's easy. Simple. Everything I do, I want to share with her. Even the thoughts of Céline have faded.

"Dr. Devereaux," a nurse calls, snapping me back to the present, "we need you in bay three."

I nod and wash up, ready to dive back into the fray. As I push through the double doors, a pang of guilt nibbles at me. There's a new heroin on the streets, and volunteering at the safe-use sites feels more than ever like an extension of the care we provide here. But our chief medical officer would disagree. We've yet to come to an agreement on this, so I've kept mum about the nights when I know members of our staff volunteer. Maybe it's my own rebellion, one last stand against the system, but even that urge has dulled. Being a rebel is standing up to him.

"Easy, buddy," I murmur to the young man convulsing on the gurney before me, his eyes rolling as we fight to bring him back from the brink. Encouraging rehab for those we save becomes a mantra, and for those who refuse, safe-use sites are all we can offer.

But even so, the sense of accomplishment is undeniable. We're not just treating symptoms; we're trying to mend broken lives. It's a battle worth fighting, even on days like this when our resources are stretched thin and the tide of desperation crashes against us relentlessly.

"Good job, everyone," I say once the young man's breathing steadies and his seizure subsides. Weariness clings to me, yet it's tinged with the satisfaction of knowing I've made a difference. I glance at the clock again, eager to scrub off the day and meet Lucy, to immerse myself in the normalcy she brings to my life.

"Dr. Devereaux," someone calls.

I turn, ready for the next crisis, the next person in need. Because no matter how good life gets outside these hospital walls, this is where I'm needed most. This is where I make a stand, however quiet or unseen. Lucy understands that. She's doing the same thing from a different angle. It's part of how we connect.

I'm threading a catheter when Griffin sidles up to the sterile field, his eyes shadowed with the toll of the day. "I just heard from the safe-use on Hastings. They've had four deaths and are worried that after dark it's going to get worse," he murmurs, just loud enough for me to catch over the beep of monitors and activity around us.

I glance up, my hands steady despite the surprise that jolts through me. "Yeah?" I respond.

"I'm going. But Kent said his father was watching the clinic for hospital staff."

I nod, sliding the catheter home and taping it down. "I don't know what I can do to protect you."

"I'll be fine. If he wants to fire me, I'll land somewhere else. But I need to do something. This is bad." He sighs. "I just wanted you to know."

I nod. "I'll let you know if I hear from him."

"Dr. Devereaux…" The intercom crackles, and I know before the next words come that it's Dr. Charles Johns summoning me, as if he's somehow heard our conversation. I peel off my gloves and give Griffin a tight smile. "Hold down the fort."

"Always do," he replies.

I stride through the bustling emergency department and up to the administrative wing, my mind a whir of potential scenarios. At Dr. Johns's office. Catherine isn't at her desk. I take in a deep breath, bracing myself, and knock on his door.

"Come in." His voice is terse, clipped with impatience or maybe disappointment. I can't tell which.

"Dr. Johns." I greet him as I enter, noting the steeple of his fingers and the stern set of his jaw. "You wanted to see me?"

"Sit down," he instructs, and I comply, the leather of the chair cool against my scrubs. "I've been hearing things," he begins.

"About?" I prompt, though I suspect where this is leading.

"Your fit here. Your…philosophies." His gaze holds mine, searching, probing. "I'm beginning to question whether you're right for this hospital."

My heart rate picks up, a drumbeat of concern that matches the distant wail of sirens. I've only been here three months, but the staff seems happy. We're getting on well together, as near as I can tell. Of course, I've had conversations with Dr. Johns before, debates over policy and practice, but this feels different. This feels personal.

"Because?" I ask, though it's more of a statement than a question. I'm aware of the unspoken rules, the lines we walk as doctors, as healers. I've never been one to stay neatly within those lines.

"I told you how I felt about your staff moonlighting at the safe-use clinics, and I understand they're still there every night. Among other things…" he concedes, and there's a flicker of something—regret, perhaps—in his eyes. "We need a certain…conformity here. A predictability."

And there it is, the crux of it. Predictability has never been my strong suit, not in love, not in life, and certainly, not in medicine. I think of Lucy, of the calm she brings to my world, and I realize how much I crave that balance now.

"I do understand your feelings. But I believe you also understand my perspective. The staff make their own decisions about their off-work hours. I am hopeful we can come to some consensus about this, but it seems we're not there yet," I say, keeping my voice even. It's a chess game, and I'm now unsure of my next move. Dr. Johns doesn't dismiss me, but the silence stretches between us. "I assure you, it is not my intention to undermine you. But I feel a responsibility to my staff as well."

"Thank you," he finally says, a dismissal if ever I heard one.

I stand, the office feeling smaller somehow, constrictive. I need air, space, the controlled mayhem of the ED over this quiet judgment. My jaw clenches so tight I fear it might snap. The words Dr. Johns has laid before me feel like a slap. He's questioning my fit for the hospital over something as human as empathy? We've been improving lives, cutting wait times, and now, we're seeing more patients than ever. I want to argue, to fight for every decision that's led us here, but insubordination isn't a card I can afford to play. So I'll have to do it diplomatically.

"Dr. Johns," I begin, my tone carefully neutral. "The morale in the ED is the best it's been in years. We're not just meeting targets; we're surpassing them." I pause, searching his face for any sign of concession, but it remains an unreadable mask.

"That may be, but rules are rules," he says, showing me what matters to him, above anything else. "If you can't manage your team within the parameters set by this hospital," he adds, voice cold as steel, "perhaps it's time to reassess your place here."

A fire ignites in my chest, but I tamp it down, refusing to let it consume what little ground I have left to stand on. Instead, I pivot, steering us away from the precipice. "Of course." I nod, though it sticks in my throat. I exit his office, the door clicking shut behind me.

How does Kent do it? How does he stay so damn normal in a world where every decision feels like walking a tightrope? I shake my head, pushing the thought aside as I navigate the maze-like corridors toward Legal.

William Long, Dr. Johns's son-in-law and one of the hospital lawyers, looks up from a stack of papers as I approach. His office is immaculate, everything in its place, a stark contrast to the emergency department.

"William, got a minute?" I ask, leaning against the door frame.

He motions me inside. "Sure. What's up? Any news on the Prometheus Health?"

"I gave that project to Dr. Johns—Charles. I actually have a legal question for you." I fold my arms across my chest. "What's the difference, malpractice-wise, between volunteering at a government-sanctioned safe-use clinic versus running into an accident and helping someone on the road?"

"Interesting comparison," William muses, resting his temple against his fist. "There are nuances, immunity provisions… I'll need to look into the specifics. It can get complicated."

"Great," I say with a smile. "Please let me know when you have something."

"Will do." He nods.

I thank him and start my return to the ED. My steps are heavy, tension in my shoulders. The weight of leadership, of decisions made and yet to come, bears down on me. But there's no time to dwell; the ED won't manage itself, regardless of the politics playing out behind closed doors.

I burst through the swinging doors into the emergency department. My head is still swirling with legalities and looming decisions, but I shove it all aside. My focus narrows to the care I want to provide.

"Dr. Devereaux!" Jennifer, the nurse in charge, calls.

I zero in on a woman curled on her side, clutching her abdomen, her face a tapestry of pain. "Talk to me," I say, slipping on gloves as I kneel beside her. Her breaths are shallow, punctuated by sharp gasps.

"Severe abdominal pain, onset a few hours ago, no known allergies or pre-existing conditions." Jennifer rattles off the stats, a dance we've done a hundred times over.

"Possible ectopic pregnancy," I murmur as I palpate her abdomen gently, watching for signs, cues that might guide us. We need confirmation, a clear image of what's happening inside. "Get an ultrasound here, stat."

"Already on it."

A figure in blue scrubs strides toward us, the OB/GYN attending, Dr. Andrews. "I'll take over from here," he says, his voice leaving no room for argument.

"Keep me updated," I reply, rising and stepping back as the team moves in.

"Dr. Devereaux!" Jennifer calls again as I'm about to turn away. She holds out a hospital phone, her expression apologetic. "It's your landlord, Ginny. Says it's urgent."

My heart skips a beat, sensing a different kind of emergency. "Thanks," I mutter, taking the receiver and pressing it to my ear.

"Chance, dear," Ginny's voice comes through, tinged with a note of concern. "You've got a visitor from Montreal. A tall, thin, dark-haired woman. She's waiting here at the house."

The edges of my vision narrow, the world outside my spiraling thoughts dimming. Céline . It can only be her. My pulse quickens. "Did she say what she wanted?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady despite the adrenaline.

"She just kept repeating your name. I'm sorry. My French isn't very good," Ginny replies.

"Thanks, Ginny. I'll be home as soon as I can," I assure her.

"Be careful," she adds before hanging up.

Careful . Of course. With Céline, caution is always warranted.

I replace the receiver slowly, feeling the weight of the past pressing in around me. I stand caught between the life I've built here and the ghost of another that's just reappeared.

I get back to work, and the clock ticks closer to the end of my shift. But after a while, I can't focus on the charts anymore, as Ginny's words echo in my head. I sign off on the last patient file and find myself stripping off my white coat before I've fully registered the decision to leave early.

I wish Griffin luck, head down to my car, and drive home. Why is Céline here? What does she want? What will I do if she wants to stay? What about Lucy?

I pull into the driveway. Before I even reach the door, it swings open, and there she is—Céline, from a life I thought I'd left behind. Her eyes lock on mine, emotions swirling in their depths.

"Chance!" The word slips from her lips.

My hands rise as she rushes toward me, catching her shoulders and holding her at bay. The touch is electric, familiar yet unwelcome.

"I want us back," she breathes in rapid French. "We're meant to be together."

I shake my head. "Céline, why are you here?"

Her dark eyes well up, tears spilling over. "How could you cut me off like that?" she chokes out. "I thought you'd come back. For me, for us."

My chest tightens at her distress. I hate seeing her in pain, yet the mere thought of giving up my life for her—living without Lucy—sears through me, threatening to cleave my heart in two. I can see now that Céline's not interested in what I want or need, and maybe she never has been. I've wasted too much time not seeing her for what she is.

"Montreal was another time, Céline," I whisper. "Things…they change." When she still seems unconvinced, I force myself to continue. "Lucy," I add, the name falling heavily into the space between us. "She's the one you were asking about."

A look of confusion flits across Céline's face, quickly replaced by a stubborn resolve. "Chance, seeing you again—don't you feel it? It's still there between us," she insists, her voice a sultry whisper that once might have unraveled me. She steps closer. But I'm not the man I was in Montreal. Lucy, the new work I'm doing here in Vancouver—it has reshaped my world.

I manage a half-smile, tinged with regret. "Céline, I won't lie. It's good to see you. But things are different now. You should've called." My words are gentle but firm.

Her eyes darken. "We just need to be together—make love—and everything will fall back into place. You'll remember us." She moves in, arms reaching for an embrace I can't return.

Instinctively, I step back, hands raised in a weak barrier. "No, Céline—we can't." The boundary is set.

"But you're mine," she accuses sharply, a raw edge of betrayal sharpening her voice. "You're cheating on me!"

I close my eyes. This isn't how today was supposed to unfold. Everyone wants answers I don't yet have. I need space, time to think, to sort out who I am and how best to be that person—at work and at home. But first, I must navigate the storm in front of me, where every move feels like a potential disaster.