Chapter 5

Chance

I toss my reading glasses on the stack of paperwork on my desk at the hospital and rub my eyes. I came in early before the night shift to figure out what the hell my predecessor was doing with Prometheus Health Solutions. As near as I can tell, she's signed us up for a drug trial targeting the unhoused. She was doing all of the tabulations and reporting herself, but it's still an additional load on our staff, and the well-being of my team and the quality of care we provide takes precedence. Even after reading this stuff, I'm not sure what the drug is supposed to accomplish. Frankly, I can't see how the funds are worth the strain.

Maybe I'm missing something. I need a copy of the contract. I pull up legal in the employee directory and dial. It's late in the day, but hopefully, someone is still in.

"William Long," the deep baritone voice says in answer.

I introduce myself as the new head of the emergency department. "Sorry to bother you so late. I'm looking for a copy of the contract we have with Prometheus Health. It's for a drug trial?"

There is silence on the other end of the line.

"Hello?"

"I'm here." Clicking of a keyboard fills the silence. "Are you telling me your department is working on a drug trial?"

"It seems so. Eleanor Thompson was my predecessor, and the nurse in charge handed me a stack of data a few days ago. I don't know what to do with it. I don't even have a contact to ask, so I thought I'd look at the contract. Is that possible?"

"I don't know. It doesn't look like it was run through my office."

"Is that normal?"

"It's not supposed to be. Department heads don't have authority to sign contracts. Have you brought this up with Dr. Johns?"

"Not yet. I'm just trying to understand it. It seems like she was doing all the work herself to process the numbers. I'm just trying to get caught up."

"I don't see a copy of it here."

I sit for a minute. What the hell was she doing? "I have the reams of paperwork she's submitted in a filing cabinet. I haven't gone through it all. Maybe it's there," I tell him. "I'm sorry. I just assumed legal would have the contract."

"We should. If you find it, let me know."

"I will."

I disconnect the call. Eleanor moved out of the province, but maybe someone has a way to reach her.

"Code Yellow. Code Yellow," blares over the ED speakers.

I groan. We have a missing patient.

I walk out of my office and look at Jennifer, the nurse in charge. "What happened?"

"It's a regular. He was walking around naked, and a woman is upset. He took off running as soon as the woman shrieked."

I try very hard to suppress my smile. We have a streaker. In the hospital. And the moon is full. It's going to be one of those nights.

Fortunately, the wild and craziness decreased as the full moon set and the sun peeked over the horizon. Nights like last night are no fun, but it meant the twelve-hour shift went quickly. I'm exhausted, and I've dumped my scrubs into the laundry. I shrug into my jacket, muscles aching. The last of the adrenaline that carried me through has evaporated.

"Hey!" Griffin's voice arrests my trudge to freedom. "Got plans?"

I turn, finding his eyes searching mine, reflecting a purpose I recognize too well. He's dressed in scrubs like they're armor, staving off the exhaustion I'm sure gnaws at him too. "Sleep," I answer, though my voice is more hopeful than certain.

"Before you crash…" Griffin leans closer, lowering his voice. "There's this safe-use clinic nearby. We could use an extra hand today."

My eyebrows knit together. Volunteering at these clinics isn't exactly encouraged by the hospital. But what they stand for—giving drug users a safe place without worry about overdosing or violence—couldn't be more important. And it always comes with a soft reminder that when they're ready, we'll find them a bed in rehab.

"Sure." The word slips out, decisive, before doubt can creep in. "Where?"

"Ten minutes from here. Follow me?" he asks, already moving toward the exit with an energy I envy.

"Lead the way."

We navigate the quiet streets, the city still asleep. When we arrive, the clinic is nondescript yet somehow inviting. Inside, six beds line the room, each one occupied, a sanctuary in the midst of personal storms.

"Here." Griffin hands me a clipboard with a rundown of protocols. "Just sit with them, keep an eye on their vitals. Step in if things go south, and holler if you need help."

I nod, sitting beside the first bed where a man lies, his breaths shallow but even. His face, etched with lines of a hard-lived story, seems peaceful. I monitor his pulse, the steady beep of the heart monitor a comforting refrain.

This is medicine, raw and real. No barriers, no judgment, just care. My gaze drifts over the occupants, every one of them fighting battles unseen. It's a far cry from the sterile, controlled mayhem of the ED. Here it's about connection, about being present in the most human way possible.

And as the morning light grows brighter through the blinds, I know I'll come back. This clinic, a haven in the heart of the city's darkness, strikes a chord with me. Medicine should be about presence, about ensuring that even the most marginalized get a chance to see another day.

"Thank you," Griffin murmurs as we wrap up a few hours later, his gratitude genuine, his smile weary but satisfied.

I nod and return the smile, feeling oddly rejuvenated despite the lack of sleep. "This is what we do."

I ride home, grateful that the traffic is busy coming into the City and easier leaving it. I trudge up the walkway to my basement apartment, my body aching with every step. Shadows cling to the edges of Ginny's well-kept garden as I slide my key into the lock of the basement door, my private entrance to what I've come to call home.

"Chance?" Ginny's voice cuts through the silence. I hadn't expected her to be waiting for me.

"Hey, Ginny," I mumble, stifling a yawn with the back of my hand.

She stands on the sidewalk behind me, wrapped in a robe that's seen better days, her hair disheveled. "I'm sorry to bother you, especially after your night shift, but I need your help."

"Of course," I say, my words more automatically than consciously. It's hard to switch off the doctor in me, the part that responds to calls for aid without hesitation.

"It's the hot water in the shower. It won't turn off. I've tried everything." She wrings her hands. "The plumber can't make it until tomorrow, and I don't know what to do."

"Let's have a look," I offer, following her into the main house.

Ginny leads me to the bathroom, where the sound of rushing water greets us, relentless and unforgiving. I reach for the faucet, hoping for an easy fix, but reality is never that kind. With a sigh, I realize it'll take more than a twist of the wrist to solve this problem.

I twist the knobs again, harder this time, but they're not stopping the water. A quick inspection of the water heater and its natural gas flame shows it's burning steadily—no issue there. I scan the area for leaks, anything that could give me a clue. It's something more complicated, beyond a simple fix I can provide.

"Looks like we'll have to wait for the plumber, Ginny," I tell her. "For now, I'll have to shut off the hot water entirely." I try to offer her a reassuring smile, one I've perfected in the ED when delivering unpleasant news. "It's the best I can do until the plumber gets here."

Her face falls. "But what about you? How will you manage without hot water?"

"Cold showers build character," I joke weakly. "Or I'll use the hospital's facilities if need be. Don't worry about me."

"Okay," she says looking down at her hands.

"We'll both be fine."

A wrench gets the job done, and then I leave Ginny with her plumbing woes and retreat to the sanctuary of the basement. My body hits the mattress, and I surrender to exhaustion.

The moment my eyelids close, sleep ambushes me—a merciful blackout. But then, the piercing trill of my phone breaks the silence. I fumble for it, blinking away the remnants of unconsciousness as I answer.

"Chance?" The voice comes through, rapid-fire French, a familiar cadence that tugs at the corners of my mind.

"Maman?" I croak, struggling to shift gears. Confusion muddies my thoughts before they finally settle into the rhythm of my mother tongue.

"Yes, it's me," she replies in French, her words a comforting melody even as they come too fast for my sleep-addled brain. "How are you, mon chéri?"

"I'm exhausted," I admit. "Just finished a long shift."

"Ah, my poor baby." She clucks sympathetically. "Make sure you rest. You work too hard."

"Always," I promise, though we both know my word is as unsteady as the hands that tried to fix Ginny's shower. I rub the sleep from my eyes and sit up, pressing the phone to my ear. "Tell me what's new at home," I say, eager for a distraction from my own fatigue.

"Your father," she begins, her voice laced with concern that tightens something in my chest, "he has been asked to consult on a friend's case in Quebec City."

"Is he okay?" I ask, picturing my father, his brow furrowed in concentration over legal texts and case files.

"Yes, yes, he's fine. But you know how he gets—completely absorbed. And the roads are icy there…" Her voice trails off, leaving unsaid worries hanging between us.

"Let him know I'm thinking of him," I say, trying to offer comfort despite the miles that separate us.

"Of course," she replies, and then her tone brightens. "And your sister, she is doing well. The children are growing so fast. They miss their uncle."

A smile finds its way to my face. "I miss them too. Tell them I'll video call soon."

"You promise?" she asks.

"Promise," I affirm. "What else is going on?"

"Ah, yes," she continues, "we are planning to give your sister and her partner a little break. We'll stay with the kids for a few days while they get away. A second honeymoon, you could say."

"That's wonderful," I say. I can picture Karine's relief and joy, a precious gift only our parents could give.

"Family is everything," Maman reminds me, and though it's a line I've heard a thousand times before, tonight it grounds me after the storm.

"I know," I reply. "Thanks for the updates. It means a lot."

"Take good care of yourself, my love," she says.

"Always do," I assure her, though we both understand that sometimes "taking care" is a complex equation in my world. But for now, I let her believe it's as simple as a promise.

My thumb hovers over the end call icon, but before I can tap it, she asks another question. "And the hospital? How are things going there?"

I lean back against the headboard as pride swells in my chest. "It's good. Really good. I've been able to implement a few new protocols that— They're making a difference. Every day feels like…like I'm where I'm supposed to be."

"I'm so happy for you," she says. "It's good to be making a difference."

But then her tone shifts, weighted with a mother's inherent worry. "But you take care of yourself, yes? You work too hard."

"Always," I repeat the earlier promise, knowing it'll placate her for now. "Don't worry about me."

There's a brief silence, the kind where unspoken thoughts gather like clouds on the horizon. Then, softly, she asks, "Have you heard from Céline recently?"

The name is a cold splash of reality, yanking me back into a past I've tried to leave behind. I close my eyes, a single blink to banish her image. "No, I haven't. And I don't expect I will." My voice is steady, betraying none of the turmoil that question stirs within me. "She made her choice."

"Ah …" Sympathy threads through her sigh, a sound I've come to know well in the wake of my broken relationship.

"It's okay, really," I cut in before she can say more. "I came out here for a reason, remember? For the job, for the change. It's just taking some time to…adjust." The last word hangs between us, a stark understatement of the lonely nights spent turning over what-ifs and might-have-beens.

"Adjust," she echoes, her voice a caress against the jagged edges of my heart. "Just make sure you heal too, okay?"

"Of course." I manage a small chuckle. "That's what the West Coast is for, right? Sunnier days ahead." I press the phone closer to my ear, the cool plastic a stark contrast to the heat of frustration simmering in my mother's tone.

"Chance, how can she do that to you? To leave you after all the plans—"

"Hey," I interject, rubbing the bridge of my nose with my free hand. "Nobody's perfect. Like you always say, we can always do better." I force a half-smile, though she can't see it, an old habit from softer conversations.

She tuts, the sound bristling with the protective fervor only a mother can muster. "You're right. We must push ourselves to always do better. But sometimes, matters of the heart are different."

"Thanks. But really, I'm okay."

"Promise me. Promise me you're taking care of yourself."

"I promise." My words are a thin veil over the weariness that clings to my soul.

"Good. And have a good rest."

"Goodnight, Maman," I whisper, and the call ends.

I let the phone slip from my hand onto the bed, the dull thud echoing in the silence. Leaning back against the headboard, I close my eyes, only to find Céline's face blossoming against the darkness of my eyelids.

Did I make a mistake?

Long ago, our first date was a dance of dreams and laughter. Even then, she spoke of one day leaving Montreal, tired of the endless struggle to find stability as a massage therapist. And I craved the warmth, the promise of a climate less harsh, a respite from the bitter winters that seemed to seep into my bones.

" Moving west ," she had said when we finally got serious about it, years later, her eyes alight with hope and uncertainty. "A fresh start."

But when the time actually came, her resolve crumbled like dry leaves underfoot, and I was left holding the remnants of our plan, alone.

Sighing, I rise and walk over to the window, peering out into the day.

"Was it a mistake?" I murmur.

Maybe. Or maybe the mistake was not seeing the signs sooner, not realizing that our reasons for thinking about leaving were as different as the paths we ultimately took—hers to remain rooted in the familiar, mine to seek solace in the unknown.

With a weary shake of my head, I pull the curtains closed, shutting out the world. It's time to sleep, to recharge for my shift tonight—for the patients who need me, for the life I've chosen here.