At 6:00 PM, the storm hits.
It doesn't start gradually. It hits the building like a physicalblow. The wind howls, a high-pitched shriek that penetrates even the thick glass of the hospital windows.
I am in the Chief’s Lounge on the top floor. I am staring out the window.
The city is gone.
There is only white. A wall of snow, moving horizontally. The streetlights are blurred halos. Traffic on the highway below has ground to a halt.
My phone buzzes.
It’s a notification from the Hospital Administration app.
EMERGENCY ALERT: BLIZZARD CONDITIONS. ALL STAFF SHELTER IN PLACE. SHIFT CHANGES SUSPENDED. TRAUMA centre ON HIGH ALERT.
I look at the phone.
Trauma centre.
Jax is down there.
He is probably drinking a Red Bull. He is probably listening to the wind and thinking about the perimeter. He is probably alone.
I should go down there.
I should go down there and tell him that I don't care about the Board. That I don't care about the legacy. That I would rather be fired than spend another minute in this silent, cold tower.
I turn from the window.
I grab my coat.
I open the door to the lounge.
And the lights go out.
The entire hospital plunges into darkness.
For a second, there is total silence.
Then, the red emergency lights flicker on, bathing the corridor in a blood-colored glow.
Thebackup generators hum to life, a low, thrumming vibration in the floor.
My pager beeps.
It is a sound I have heard a thousand times. But this time, it chills me to the bone.
CODE BLACK. MASS CASUALTY INCIDENT. HIGHWAY 9. BUS ROLLOVER. ENTRAPMENT.
Highway 9. The ravine stretch.
I start running.
I run for the stairs. I run down ten flights of stairs in the red dark.
I burst through the stairwell doors onto the ground floor.
The ER is chaos. Nurses are running with flashlights. The squawk box at the triage desk is screaming with static-filled radio traffic.
