Chapter 3

Chance

When I was hired, hospital administration expressed concern about turnover and the morale of the emergency department. I've observed for the past six weeks or so, and it didn't take long to identify—well, confirm—the biggest obstacle for the staff. Now, I'm standing at the head of the table in the staff conference room, my new mantle as Chief of the Emergency Department weighing heavy on my shoulders. The morning shift is over, and the night shift is here, so we have just enough overlap to meet.

I look around at all of them. Nights, days, nights again—the constant flip-flop is battering my internal clock. I knew from the beginning that the rotating shifts were an issue—at least for some of the staff. Now, I've experienced them, and they have to be on everyone's list of things they hate. So we need to work through this, but I have to build consensus. I think this nutty schedule was an attempt at fairness, so we need to be sure people have a voice in where they end up.

"Okay, let's talk schedules," I say, getting the meeting underway. "I'm curious to hear your thoughts on this rotation thing—one month nights, next month days. How's that working for you?"

A sea of fatigued faces greets me, and Melissa Lewis, a lead nurse, speaks first. "The changing routine is very hard for childcare," she notes, and a murmur of agreement ripples through the room.

I can see the dark circles under her eyes, helping make her point. "Thanks, Melissa. That makes sense." My gaze shifts to Dr. Mitch Henderson, whose posture seems to have deflated a bit more than usual. "Mitch, what about you?"

"Trying to maintain any semblance of a personal life is near impossible when you bounce back and forth like this."

"I could see that," I say as I nod, trying to encourage others to talk. If I can get their buy-in on the change in scheduling, they'll be more cooperative about other changes I want to implement.

Kent, sitting beside Mitch, chimes in before anyone else can. "Come on, Mitch, when was the last time you had a date anyway?" he teases, his smirk softening the blow.

"Hilarious," Mitch shoots back, but there's no real heat behind his words.

I lean forward, resting my hands on the back of an empty chair. They all hate it. That's good. "What I think you're telling me is that this schedule isn't working." I tap a pen against the notepad in front of me. The murmur of the staff meeting quiets as I roll my shoulders back to ease the tension that's built there. "I'd like to propose that starting next month, we switch to a fixed schedule of day and night shifts." I pause to let that sink in, watching brows rise and heads tilt with interest. "We'll add overlapping shifts for midday and midevening to cover peak hours."

I scan the room, noting the tentative smiles and nods. "I've spoken with HR," I add. "There'll be a pay differential for the night shift."

Now, the smiles turn genuine, relief palpable in their tired eyes.

"We'll start with volunteers," I continue. The room falls silent. "If there aren't enough volunteers, the more senior staff will get their preferred shift choice first." I look at the nurse in charge. "Jessica, let's work together tomorrow and set up the schedule. Everyone, please give your preferences to Jessica. She'll also have the pay structure for the night shift. And I don't want any of you to put pressure on your teams if they don't want the same shift. This may take some shuffling things around. Hear me?"

I get a few nods. I won't let them bully the staff.

"Okay, let's move on to other matters." I look down at the agenda. "We've got medication shortages to discuss and some weird drugs popping up on the market." The conversation picks up again, turning technical and detailed, but my mind is drawn to the people behind the issues—stressed parents, exhausted doctors, burned-out nurses. I think this scheduling change could make a real difference.

"Anything else before we wrap up?" I ask.

Jessica raises her hand, and I nod. "What are we doing about the Prometheus Health Solutions drug trial?" she asks. "I don't know who to send the documentation to."

"Ahhhh… Give it to me, and I'll chase it down," I say. This is news to me, but I want to help, and I should be informed anyway.

She smiles. I'm winning them over one at a time.

When the meeting wraps, I push away from the conference table feeling like I've accomplished something tangible. My day is over.

I shrug into my leathers in the locker room and head across the street to Barney's. Even on a weeknight, the place has a pulsing energy about it. As I enter, my mind shifts gears from Chief of ED to just Chance, who's in need of some good food and maybe a beer. I scan the crowd and find a booth tucked away in the back. Settling in, I lean back and exhale slowly, letting the noise wash over me.

From here, I can watch without being too obvious, a habit I've picked up from years in the ED, always observing. The pub is alive with stories I don't know, dramas unfolding at every table. For now, I'm content to just sit and take it all in, anonymous in my corner, far from the pressures of schedules and staff complaints.

A server comes over with the kind of efficient grace that speaks of long hours on her feet—Lucy, according to her name tag. My gaze lingers appreciatively for a moment. She's got curves that draw the eye, dressed in jeans and a form-fitting T-shirt. But it's her hair that snags my attention—the rich auburn hue twisted up into a bun, professional yet hinting at some untamed spirit beneath. A fleeting thought crosses my mind, a curious wonder about how that hair would look falling loose around her shoulders, soft and wild.

"Evening," I say, attempting a smile. "What's the special tonight?"

"The special is on the board," Lucy replies curtly, pointing to a chalkboard by the bar without meeting my gaze. Her voice is clipped, businesslike, leaving no room for pleasantries.

"Right." I nod, chastened, feeling a flicker of irritation. It's been a long day of managing crises and placating staff. I'm not in the mood for games or attitude. "I'll just have the burger. Salad on the side, please."

She scribbles down the order, already halfway to her next table. "Sure thing."

As Lucy walks away, I watch her exchange a quick word with another server. They glance back at me, their expressions unreadable. I feel a prickle of annoyance. Have I somehow upset her? I run a hand through my hair, second-guessing my every move, but come up empty. Maybe it's nothing personal; maybe it's just been a long shift for her too.

All I want is to eat something that didn't come out of a hospital cafeteria, to enjoy the anonymity of this booth before I retreat to the solitude of my ride home. I lean back, letting out a slow breath, trying to shake off the disquiet of the exchange. The night outside beckons with the promise of a cool wind and the purr of my Harley, but for now, I watch Lucy navigate the pub with an air of detached professionalism, hoping for a quiet end to an otherwise eventful day.

I glance up as she returns, balancing a plate, and my stomach growls in anticipation. But as she sets the plate in front of me with a clunk that lacks any hint of care, I immediately sense something is off.

"Enjoy," she says flatly before turning away, not waiting for a response.

I stare at the charred disc masquerading as a burger, sandwiched between what has to be a stale bun, its texture reminiscent of day-old bread left out on a kitchen counter. The side salad sits limply next to it, its leaves wilted and uninviting. This is a far cry from what I've had here before.

With a sigh, I muster my courage and take a tentative bite of the burger. It's like chewing on a hockey puck. My jaw works overtime trying to break it down, and I quickly realize no amount of ketchup will rescue this culinary disaster. Reluctantly, I abandon the burger and begin foraging through the sad excuse for a salad, plucking out the few cherry tomatoes and strips of carrot that still cling to life.

As I'm picking through the greens, I find myself wishing for a cold beer to wash down the disappointment. My eyes flicker around the room, searching for the server who seems to have disappeared into thin air. When she finally reappears, she scans the room, deliberately avoiding my table. And when our eyes do meet, there's a chill to her look that sends a shiver down my spine.

"Excuse me, could I get a beer?" I try, but she's already flitting away, lost in a sea of customers, her attention pointedly elsewhere. I sigh, resigned to the fact that this meal is one I'll have to endure rather than enjoy.

I brace myself and take another bite of charred burger, the rubbery texture fighting back against my teeth. The taste—or rather the lack of it—sends my thoughts spiraling away from the culinary catastrophe to the staff meeting earlier today. Jessica was a godsend afterward, her organizational skills shining as we pieced together an outline for next month's schedule. Now, we just have to fill everyone into the slots tomorrow. Despite my dinner, I smile as I imagine the coming month free of scheduling fires to put out.

But the new scheduling plan also points to a glaring problem. We remain understaffed, a gaping hole that won't be patched by clever scheduling or wishful thinking. As I spear another wilted leaf, this salad reminds me of our nursing roster—both lacking necessary substance. Our nurses are stretched thin, doing the work of two people, sometimes more. They're not to blame; they've been nothing but dedicated. But plain and simple, there is a nursing shortage.

We need more hands, more hearts in the trenches with us. I push the plate away. How many more shifts can they pull before the strain shows? Not just in tired eyes, but in potentially costly mistakes?

My jaw clenches. I need to find a solution, and soon. For their sake, and for the patients'. I push my plate away. This problem won't be solved tonight. But it's on my list, a challenge I'm determined to tackle head-on, just as soon as I can escape this gastronomic purgatory. Maybe there's a drive-thru I can hit on my way home.

With a sigh, I scan once again for the server, hoping to settle up and make my escape. She's nowhere in sight. Impatience skitters through me as minutes tick by, but then resignation sets in. I fish out my wallet, laying enough cash on the table to cover the meal and then some. It's more than this dismal experience warrants, but I'm not one to let a bad night sour potential future visits. After all, Barney's is the hospital's hangout. You never know when you'll need to have a beer or relax with the staff .

I stand and head for the exit. The bell above the door jingles sharply as I step into the cool night air.

"Chance! Hey, man!" Griffin waves as I step outside. They're just arriving.

"Finished already? Come back in, grab a beer with us," Kent suggests, gesturing toward the entrance.

Part of me—a very small part—is tempted by the offer. But the weight of the day and the tragedy of my meal presses on my shoulders, reminding me of the tasks still ahead and tomorrow's early start. "I appreciate it, guys, but I need to get home."

"Another time, then." Griffin claps a hand on my shoulder. "By the way, the new shift plan is solid," he enthuses, his face animated in the soft light. "It's exhausting bouncing back and forth. Genius move. And bonus money for working nights is spot on. It will play to the needs of the staff."

Kent nods in agreement. "It's already a game-changer for morale. And honestly, getting to pick our poison will make those twelve-hour shifts feel less like a death march."

"I'm glad you think so," I say, my spirits buoyed by their approval. "I've got more ideas brewing. We're going to turn things around in the emergency department, make it a place where people don't just come to work, they come to thrive."

Griffin nods. "That's why you're the boss, man. You actually listen—and act on it."

"Thanks, guys," I say with a wave. "Let's keep this momentum going."

Focus on the positive , I tell myself. Despite that dinner, things are looking up around here.