I am currently attempting to perform a routine inspection of the Cardio-Trauma Unit, but my path is blocked by a cluster of staff at the central nurses' station.
Indira Singh and Nurse Miller are huddled over a battered, coffee-stained three-ring binder. They are whispering with the intensity of conspirators plotting a coup.
"Current odds on 'Workplace Fistfight' are dropping," I hear Miller whisper. "They’re down to 5-to-1."
I pause. I step into the shadow of a pillar. Eavesdropping is beneath me, but gathering intelligence is a vital command function.
"Too low," Indira hisses, tapping a pen against the page. "They haven't yelled at each other in three days. The tension is shifting. I’m moving the money to 'Secret Dating.'"
I stiffen.Secret Dating?Who is dating? And why is it interfering with my unit's efficiency?
"No way," Miller argues. "Did you see York yesterday? He looked at O'Connell's desk like it was a crime scene. He hates him."
"He bought him a donut," Indira counters.
I freeze.
"What?" Miller asks.
"Tuesday morning," Indira whispers. "I saw it. York walked in with a coffee and a bag from the bakery. He put a glazed donut on O'Connell’s desk. He didn't say anything. He just left it there like a sacrificial offering."
I feel a flush rise on the back of my neck. It was not a sacrificial offering. It was a caloric supplement to prevent Dr. O'Connell from becoming hypoglycemic and making a surgical error. It was a safety protocol.
"A donut?" Miller sounds skeptical. "York doesn't eat carbs. He considers sugar a poison."
"Exactly," Indira says triumphantly. "He bought a poison he despises for a man he supposedly tolerates. That is intimacy, Miller. That is romance. I’m adjusting the spread. 3-to-1 on 'Christmas Miracle Hookup.'"
I have heard enough.
I step out from the pillar. I smooth my tie. I walk toward the desk with the silent, predatory gait that terrifies interns.
"Dr. Singh," I say.
The effect is instantaneous.
Indira slams the binder shut so hard a pen flies off the desk and skitters across the floor. Miller jumps and immediately begins typing on a computer that I can clearly see is turnedoff.
"Dr. York!" Indira squeaks, pressing the binder to her chest like a shield. "I... I didn't see you there."
"Clearly," I say, coming to a stop in front of the station. I look at Miller, then at Indira. "You look flushed, Dr. Singh. Is there a pathogen circulating in the unit I should be aware of?"
"Pathogen?" Indira stammers. "No. No pathogen. Just... statistical analysis."
"Statistics?" I raise an eyebrow.
"Vital signs," she lies, sweating profusely. "Of the unit. Generally. Tracking the... uh... hypertension rates."
I stare at her. I look at the binder she is clutching. I look back at her face.
She knows. She saw the donut. And she has monetized it.
Part of me wants to confiscate the binder and report them to HR for gambling on hospital property. But another part of me—a treacherous, illogical part—is curiously flattered that the odds of me physically assaulting Dr. O'Connell have decreased.
"Hypertension is a serious concern," I say smoothly. "Carry on, Dr. Singh. And tell Nurse Miller that if he stares at a black screen any longer, people might begin to question his neurological status."
Miller turns the monitor on, looking terrified.
"Yes, sir," Indira whispers.
