You’re an idiot, Adrian.
She’s a journalist.She writes about me.Whatever she’s playing, getting involved with her is the last thing I need right now.I’m already trying to prove myself to this town while my past haunts me.I can’t afford to give people more ammunition.Especially not when I’m finally starting to feel like I might belong somewhere.
But when she glanced at me, there was something vulnerable in her expression that made my chest tighten.Like she’s as confused about what almost happened as I am.
“She’s sweet, right?Good to see you making friends.”
Friends.Right.That’s what we’re calling it.
I run a hand through my hair, trying to shake off the lingering awareness of how she felt beside me right here tonight.This is complicated in ways I didn’t expect when I agreed to help with the fundraiser.
Now I worry what that means when we next meet up at the bar.Will I feel that same magnetic draw that had me leaning toward her?What if I was reading the signs wrong?Does she just see me as a story?Am I just a chase to her because she wants to publish a new page-turning article?
Keep your shit together.It’s just a bar with a friend.
But even as I think about it, I know I’m lying to myself.
I review Mrs.Wynter’s chart outside Room 101.Seventy-two years old, admitted with chest pain and shortness of breath.Her EKG shows some irregularities, but nothing immediately life-threatening.What concerns me more is the confusion she’s been having.The classic signs of delirium that could indicate a UTI or medication interaction.
“Dr.Pierce.”Dr.Young’s voice cuts through the quiet ward.He’s been the chief of medicine here for twenty years, and he’s clearly used to being obeyed without question.
I peer up from the chart.“Yes, sir?”
“Mrs.Wynter in 101.I want you to discharge her by this afternoon.She’s stable, taking up a bed we need for the accident victims coming in from the highway.”
I stare at him with my mouth hanging open, certain I’ve misheard.“Sir, I think she needs further investigation.She’s showing signs of cognitive impairment that weren’t present on admission.Her family is concerned.I’d like to run a few more tests—”
“She’s seventy-two, Dr.Pierce.Confusion comes with the territory.”He’s already walking away, our conversation clearly over.
“Dr.Young, wait.”I follow him down the hallway, keeping my voice low.“With respect, sir, this isn’t normal aging.Her son says she was completely fine yesterday.Something’s changed.”
He stops walking and turns, his expression hardening.“Dr.Pierce, are you questioning my judgment?”
The question hangs in the air like a challenge.I’m aware of the nurses at the station pretending not to listen, of the way the hallway seems to have gone quieter.This is exactly the kind of moment I’ve been dreading since I arrived here.Where I must choose between keeping my head down or doing what’s right.
“I’m questioning the discharge order, yes.I think Mrs.Wynter needs at least another twenty-four hours of observation.”
Dr.Young’s jaw tightens.“Dr.Pierce, let me be clear.In this hospital, senior physicians make the decisions.You’re not here to override twenty-one years of experience with your big city ideas.”
Big city ideas.
The reminder that I’m the outsider, and I don’t fit in here.Maybe never will.
“This isn’t about where I trained, sir.It’s about patient care.Her mental status change could indicate—”
“Nothing more than an old woman being in an unfamiliar environment.Discharge her.That’s the order.”
He walks away, leaving me standing in the hallway with Mrs.Wynter’s chart firmly in my arms.Through the window of Room 101, I can see her son holding her hand.It reminds me of doing the same with my dad’s.
I take a deep breath and walk back to the nurses’ station.“Can you prep Mrs.Wynter for a urinalysis and complete metabolic panel?I want to rule out infection or electrolyte imbalances before discharge.”
Jess looks uncertain.“Dr.Young said—”
“I’ll take responsibility for the orders.”
I sign the chart, knowing I won’t be able to live with myself if I do otherwise.
Two hours later, the lab results are in, and I’m reviewing the numbers when my pager buzzes.Mrs.Wynter’s room, urgent.
