"What is this?" I gesture to the destruction with a hand that is worth five million dollars a year to this hospital.
"The renovation timeline was moved up," she says, breathless. "Dr. Sterling sent the memo this morning. The East Wing foundation needs reinforcing before the blizzard hits next week. They’re condemning the offices."
"Condemning?" I repeat. "I have consults. I have charts. Ihave a succulent that requires a specific amount of indirect sunlight."
"We packed it," she says, shoving the box into my hands. It contains my diploma, my Newton’s cradle, and my succulent. "Dr. Sterling said it’s temporary. Until the New Year."
"Where?" I ask, my voice dropping to a dangerous register. "Where am I supposed to work, if my office is currently a pile of rubble?"
She grimaces. It’s the look one gives a patient before telling them the tumour is inoperable.
"The Trauma floor," she whispers. "Ground level."
I stare at her. "Trauma is a zoo. It’s a bacterial petri dish. It’s loud."
"It’s the only floor with spare desk space. You’ve been assigned to Office 104." She takes a step back, as if fearing I might bite. "It’s a shared space."
"Shared," I say, testing the word like it’s a piece of rotten fruit. "With whom?"
She doesn't answer. She just points toward the elevators.
The elevator ride down feels like a descent into hell.
St. Jude’s Medical centre is shaped like a hierarchy. The top floor is Cardio and Neuro—the gods, the intellects, the clean specialties. As you go down, things get messier. Orthopedics. General Surgery. And at the very bottom, the basement level, is The Pit.
Trauma.
The elevator doors ping and slide open.
The noise hits me first. It isn't the hum of machinery; it’s the roar of humanity. People are shouting. A gurney rattles past at full speed. Somewhere, a child is screaming.
I step out, clutching my box of possessions like a shield. The air here is different. It is humid, smelling of wet wool, floor wax, and the distinct, coppery tang of fresh blood.
And the music.
Thunderstruckby AC/DC is blasting from the nurses' station. Not playing—blasting. The opening guitar riff reverberates off the linoleum floors.
I clench my jaw. I navigate through the chaos, dodging a nurse carrying a tray of urine samples and a police officer taking a statement from a man with a knife wound. This isn't medicine; this is air traffic control during a crash.
I find Office 104. It’s located directly across from the main Trauma Bay, separated only by a wall of glass. A fishbowl.
I open the door.
The office is small. It was clearly designed for one junior administrator, but two desks have been jammed together in the centre, creating a battlefield of territory.
The desk on the left is empty, save for a layer of dust.
The desk on the right looks like it was hit by a mortar shell. Stacks of paper charts lean precariously like the Tower of Pisa. Empty cans of 'Red Bull' form a pyramid. A stethoscope is tangled with a phone charger. A bag of spicy corn chips lies open, spilling orange crumbs onto a medical journal.
I feel a twitch develop in my left eye.
"You must be the squatter."
The voice comes from behind me. It is deep, scratchy, and amused.
I turn.
Standing in the doorway is a man who looks less like a doctor and more like someone who has been dishonourably discharged from a pirate ship.
