“Iknewit!” Jax crows. “I told Max! I said, ‘check the supply closets, that’s where the sexual tension goes to die!’”
“Jax!” Luke scrambles to his feet, looking mortified. “We were… debriefing!”
“Debriefing,” Jax nods solemnly. “Is that what the kids call it now? Preston, you’re bleeding.”
I touch my forehead. Sure enough, I bumped the shelf hard. “I’m fine. Just a flesh wound.”
“Max needs you two in Trauma,” Jax says, dropping the flashlight beam. “Generator 2 is sputtering. We’re expecting incoming from the subway flooding. Fix your hair, fix your faces, and get downstairs.”
He turns to leave, then pauses.
“And for the record,” Jax winks, “Room 402 has a lock on the inside. Amateurs.”
He leaves, whistling a cheerful tune that is completely at odds with the hurricane outside.
I look at Luke. Luke looks at me. His face is a furious shade of red, but he’s fighting a smile.
“I hate your family,” Luke sighs, rubbing his face.
“Technically,” I say, holding my head, “he’s an O'Connell. He's just dating into the chaos.”
“I hate them all,” Luke corrects, opening the door. “But mostly Jax. Come on, York. Let’s go save lives.”
He holds the door for me. And as I pass him, he doesn't pull his hand away when our fingers brush.
Chapter 9
The Rotation
LUKE
The hurricane has passed, the floodwaters have receded, and St. Jude’s has returned to its normal state of controlled chaos. But for Preston York, the storm has just begun.
It is Rotation Day.
For an intern, Rotation Day is like Russian Roulette. You might land in Pediatrics and spend a month handing out stickers. You might land in Proctology and… well.
Preston, through a twist of fate (or, more likely, administrative tampering by his older brother), has landed in Cardiothoracic Surgery.
I am scrubbing in to observe a coronary artery bypass graft, watching through the glass of the OR door as Max preps his "student."
“He looks green,” Jax O'Connell comments, leaning against the wall beside me. He’s eating a bag of gummy bears, whichI’m pretty sure violates several sterile field protocols. “Like,Grinchgreen.”
“He looks focused,” I defend, though I don’t sound convincing even to myself.
Inside the OR, Preston is holding his hands up in the sterile position, but he’s standing so far back from the table he’s practically in the hallway. Max is gesturing enthusiastically at the patient’s chest. Preston looks like he’s watching a horror movie he can’t turn off.
“Max has been waiting for this,” Jax chews a red bear happily. “He’s going to make him touch the pericardium. It’s squishy. Preston hates squishy.”
I sigh, pushing off the wall. “I’m going in. Someone has to make sure Preston doesn’t faint into the open chest cavity.”
I back into the OR, the cool, highly oxygenated air hitting my face. The rhythmicwhoosh-clickof the ventilator is the only sound besides the upbeat 80s pop playing on the speakers.
“—it’s the engine of the soul, Preston!” Max is beaming behind his mask, holding a scalpel like a conductor’s baton. “Look at it beat. It’s a symphony of muscle and electricity.”
“It looks like a wet bag of angry meat,” Preston says, his voice muffled and flat. “And it’s moving too much. Can we make it stop? It’s aggressive.”
“It’s a heart, Dr. York,” Max says dryly. “Beating is a feature, not a bug. Now, step in. I need you to hold the suction.”
