"Dr. Silva was just here," she says, her smile dimming a little. "He says we have to wait a few days for the picture-machine. He seemed very upset about it. He’s a good boy."
"He is," I say. "But he’s a terrible liar."
"Excuse me?"
"You aren't waiting, Mrs. Gable," I say, tapping the edge of her bed. "There has been a... clerical error. I just checked the system. You’ve been upgraded."
"Upgraded?" She blinks. "Like on an airplane?"
"Exactly like on an airplane. First class is boarding."
I walk out of the room before she can ask questions. I head straight for the nurses' station.
The computer system at St. Jude’s is ancient. It runs on Windows 98 and hope. But it also runs on the York Foundation’s endowment.
My father, Alistair York, loves two things: money, and having his name on buildings. Because of this, the "York Wing" has a special discretionary fund for "VIP Patient Care." It is usually reserved for board members or politicians when they need discretion.
I sit down at the terminal. I crack my knuckles.
I type in my username.P_York.Password:RichBoyzDontCry1(I made it when I was twelve. Don't judge me).
Access Granted.
I pull up Mrs. Gable’s file.
Current Status: Standard Ward. Insurance: Denied.
I highlight the field. I hit delete.
New Status: York Foundation Priority.Billing Code: 007-GOLD-VNotes: Patient is a close personal friend of the Foundation. Expedite all testing. Upgrade to Platinum Suite.
I hit Enter.
The screen flashes green.Processing.
I lean back in the chair.
"Dr. York?"
I jump. Foster is standing there, holding a clipboard.
"Are you... hacking the hospital?" she whispers.
"I am correcting the universe, Foster," I say, standing up. "Now, go get a wheelchair. Mrs. Gable is moving to the West Wing. And tell Radiology she’s coming down in twenty minutes. If they ask questions, tell them to call my father."
Foster’s eyes go wide. "But... Dr. Silva said?—"
"Dr. Silva is the Chief Resident," I say, patting her shoulder. "I am a York. In this building, that beats a Chief Resident. Go."
She runs.
I check my watch. 10:45 AM.
It will take the system about fifteen minutes to flag the charge. It will take Alistair another five to get the alert on his phone. It will take him two minutes to turn purple, and one minute to dial the hospital.
Showtime.
I am leaning against the nurses' station, eating the lint-covered strawberry candy (I unwrapped it, obviously), when the phone rings.
