I breathe a sigh of relief.
"Coast is clear," I murmur.
Jax grins, swiping his badge. The light turns green.
"See?" he says, holding the door open for me. "Paranoia is a wasted emotion, Max. We’re golden."
I walk into the warmth of the hospital. For once, the antiseptic smell doesn't feel like pressure; it feels like possibility.
"We have rounds," I say, checking my watch.
"You do that," Jax says, heading toward the trauma elevators. He winks. "I’ll go save some lives. Try not to miss me too much."
"I will attempt to manage," I say dryly.
I head for the Cardio floor. I feel invincible.
The summons is waiting on my desk when I arrive.
It is printed on heavy, cream-colored cardstock, the kind St. Jude’s reserves for donor galas and executions.
RE: PRELIMINARY ETHICS INQUIRYSUBJECT: RESOURCE ALLOCATION CASE #8892 (PATIENT HENDERSON)ATTENDEES: DR. A. STERLING, DR. M. YORK, DR. J. O’CONNELL.
I stare at the paper. The Henderson case. The lie I told weeks ago to save a veteran’s life. I told Sterling I was conducting a "robotic valve study." I have conducted exactly zero study. I have, however, conducted a very thorough study of Jax O’Connell’s anatomy in my shower this morning.
"Trouble in paradise?"
Jax walks in. He is glowing. There is no other word for it. The dark circles under his eyes are gone, replaced by a vibrancy that makes the fluorescent lights of the basement seem dim. He is holding two coffees.
"Sterling," I say, sliding the paper across the desk.
Jax picks it up. He reads it. He doesn't panic. He just takes a sip of coffee.
"Case #8892," Jax muses. "Was that the guy with the endocarditis?"
"Yes. The one I claimed was part of a non-existent research protocol."
"Right," Jax says. "So, we go in there, we dazzle him with some big words, and we leave. Standard operating procedure."
"This is not a field op, Jax. This is bureaucratic warfare. Sterling isn't looking for data; he’s looking for a reason to punish us.”
"Let him try," Jax says, dropping into his chair—which squeaks, a sound I am alarmingly accustomed to. "We’re a team. You’re the brains, I’m the muscle. We got this."
We do not got this.
One hour later, we are sitting in the Boardroom on the top floor. It is a glass-walled aquarium of judgment. Sterling sits at the head of the table. To his right is the hospital’s legal counsel, a woman who looks like she eats interns for breakfast. To his left is a stack of files.
"Dr. York," Sterling begins, steepling his fingers. "I have been reviewing the quarterly budget. I noticed a significant allocation of OR time for your... robotic study. Yet, I see no preliminary data uploaded to the server."
"The data is... currently being compiled," I lie, adjusting my cuffs. My palms are sweating.
"Is it?" Sterling smiles. "Or does the data not exist? Because I spoke to the device manufacturer this morning. They have no record of a grant application from St. Jude’s."
My blood runs cold. I have beenoutflanked.
"Dr. Sterling," Jax speaks up. He is leaning back in his chair, looking dangerously relaxed in his scrubs. "The manufacturer is slow. You know how corporate red tape is. We’re doing the work on the ground."
"Dr. O'Connell," Sterling snaps. "You are a trauma surgeon. Your involvement in a delicate cardiothoracic study is already suspect. In fact, Mrs. York—Catherine—mentioned to me this morning that she feels your influence is becoming... disruptive."
