“It’s the night shift,” Luke says. “They ravage it. Your job is to fix it.”
“Fix it?”
“Organize it. Inventory it. If I come back in two hours and I can’t find a 14-gauge angiocath in three seconds, you are doing rectal exams for a month.”
He turns to leave.
“Wait!” I call out. “This is hazing! This is a misuse of my talents! I am a visionary, Luke! I am a healer!”
“You’re an intern who can’t draw blood,” Luke calls back over his shoulder. “Have fun with the bedpans, Princess.”
The door clicks shut.
I am alone with the chaos.
I look at the pile of tangled IV tubing. I look at the boxes of gloves that are stacked by size but not bytexture.
A slow, calm feeling washes over me.
Luke thinks this is a punishment. He thinks this is hell.
He doesn't know that before I went to medical school, I spent a summer reorganizing my mother’s walk-in closet because the colour gradient of her cashmere was “spiritually aggressive.”
I crack my knuckles. I roll up my sleeves.
“Okay,” I whisper to the shelves. “Let’s give you a makeover.”
LUKE
Two Hours Later
I shouldn't enjoy tormenting the interns. It’s unprofessional. It’s petty.
But sending Preston York into the Supply Closet of Doom was the highlight of my week.
That closet breaks people. Last month, Levine went in there to find a Foley catheter and we found him twenty minutes later crying softly into a box of surgical masks. It is a black hole of entropy.
I finish my rounds, sign off on three discharges, and grab a coffee (from the cafeteria, because I refuse to use York’s bribe-machine upstairs).
I walk toward the supply closet. I expect to find York sitting on the floor, texting his father to buy him a new hospital.
I open the door.
I stop.
My coffee cup stops halfway to my mouth.
The closet is not clean. The closet iscurated.
The metal shelving units have been wiped down. Theboxes aren't just stacked; they are aligned with geometric precision.
But it gets worse.
The IV fluids are arranged by colour of the label—clear, blue, red—creating a soothing gradient effect. The bandages are separated not just by size, but bythread count.
There are handwritten labels. Calligraphy. On the shelf edges.
“Trauma Essentials: For the Dramatic Exit.”“Fluids: Hydrate or Diedrate.”“Sharps: Do Not Touch Without Dr. Silva.”
