“Jackson Reed.” His handshake is firm but gentle. “I’m the town pharmacist, just stopping by to stock up the medicine cabinet. You need me to let you in the back?”
With a nod of thanks, I follow him as he swipes a badge at the metal door just beyond the reception desk. “It’s my first day. I’m supposed to be meeting with Dr. Mercer in a few minutes for orientation.”
“Oh, Dr. Mercer is out this week.”
My heart rate ticks up. “He is?”
“Got called out to Anchorage to give a training, but he should be back next week.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize…” My mind whirls, anxious thoughts already swirling. If I can’t start my rotation for another week, then I won’t be able to get enough hours to finish the certification. Did he reach out to reschedule with me and I missed it? Have I already made a terrible impression before even stepping foot on the clinic property? How is the clinic even open without a physician on site?
“Should be fine,” Jackson continues, seemingly oblivious to my mental litany. “You’ll probably figure this out on your own eventually, but Dr. Mercer can be a little scatterbrained with the administrative stuff. Dr. Klinkhart has been here long enough to know the ropes, so you’ll be with him until Mercer gets back.”
“Dr. Klinkhart,” I repeat. To cover my lingering nerves, I catalog the clinic’s layout as we walk—supply closets, lab area, what appears to be a small emergency bay. Standard rural setup, minimal equipment. “Who is that?”
“Noah Klinkhart. He’s homegrown like the rest of us, but only moved back to town a few months ago. Rumor has it that Dr. Mercer is grooming him to take over the clinic when he retires, though I’m not sure how Noah feels about that.”
We stop at the nurse’s station, where a harried woman types on her computer while simultaneously talking a mile a minute into the phone propped on her shoulder. She gives us the slightest wave of acknowledgement before returning her attention to the screen in front of her.
“I’ll let Noah know you’re waiting for him,” Jackson offers. “I’m guessing Dr. Mercer forgot to mention you were coming today. Probably better if Noah has a little warning.”
Something in his tone makes me glance up sharply. “Anything else I need to know?”
Dr. Reed’s expression turns diplomatic. “Noah is... exceptionally skilled. Brilliant physician. Trained at top facilities before returning home.”
Eyebrow raised, I wait for thebutthat hangs unspoken.
“He can be demanding. Expects perfection.” Jackson’s eyes crinkle with what might be apology. “Don’t take it personally if he seems... abrupt.”
Great. Another drill sergeant attending who thinks they’re season one Miranda Bailey from Grey’s Anatomy.
“I’m used to meeting high standards,” I say, keeping my voice confident. I didn’t graduate top of my class by shrinking from challenges.
“I’m sure you are.” Jackson smiles. “There should be an orientation packet there on the desk if you want to take a look. Good luck, Dr. Chang.”
For some reason, I get the distinct impression he thinks I’m going to need that luck.
I settle at the desk, flipping through the orientation packet. The clinic layout is simple enough—five examination rooms, one trauma bay, and a modest laboratory. More than the average small-town clinic because the nearest hospital emergency room is a three-hour drive away.
The staffing schedule shows only two nurses and one medical assistant, with Dr. Mercer and Dr. Klinkhart providing emergency coverage in a rotating schedule with the local wilderness response service. And now me. Assuming I can stay on both their good sides, it shouldn’t be hard to get my hands on any interesting cases that come through here.
I’m already dreaming of altitude sicknesses, extreme cold injuries and the traumas you only get when a human sends their body hurtling down a mountain for sport.
My phone buzzes with a message from my fellowship director:
Weekly case reports required. Documentation of sufficient emergency cases essential for wilderness medicine certification. Please submit in a timely manner.
I close my eyes briefly. Everything I’ve worked for comes down to the next six weeks in this remote mountain clinic. Four years of medical school, three years of residency, countless nights studying while my classmates partied, all this careful deception about who I really am.
The wilderness medicine fellowship is my ticket to freedom—remote locations, minimal colleagues to question my suppressant regimen, and the independence to practice without alpha physicians hovering over my shoulder. Just one more year of hiding, of careful medication management, of?—
“Who the hell approved ordering only half the standard emergency antibiotics?”
The voice cuts through the clinic like a blade—deep, commanding, and unmistakably furious. My spine straightens automatically, a response I’ve spent years training myself to suppress.
I turn slowly, and my carefully constructed composure fractures.
Standing in the doorway is the most terrifyingly beautiful man I’ve ever seen. Six-foot-something of broad-shouldered intensity, with dark blonde hair swept back from a face that looks carved from marble—high cheekbones, firm jaw dusted with stubble, and piercing blue eyes currently narrowed in anger.
