The room turns to me.
This is it. The Golden Parachute. The easy life.
I open the folder. I pick up the Montblanc pen.
Sign it,a voice in my head says.Sign it and be safe.
I touch the pen to the paper.
And then, the sirens start.
It isn't just one siren. It is a chorus. A wailing, screaming cacophony rising from the streets below, piercing through the soundproof glass of the tower.
Max’s head snaps up. The polite boardroom mask vanishes instantly. He isn't the Associate Member anymore; he is the Surgeon.
“That’s a multi-unit response,” Max murmurs, his eyes locking onto the window.
Alistair frowns, annoyed by the noise. “Can someone close the blinds?”
I stand up. I walk to the window.
Below us, on the Queensboro Bridge, there is chaos. Smoke is billowing black and thick. A bus is hanging precariously off the edge of the guardrail. Several cars are crushed beneath a jackknifed semi-truck.
My phone buzzes. Max’s pager goes off at the same time. The sound is shrill and violent in the quiet room.
Emergency Alert: MASS CASUALTY INCIDENT. QUEENSBORO BRIDGE. ALL HANDS ON DECK. LEVEL 1 TRAUMA ACTIVATION.
I look at the alert.
Level 1.
That means everyone. That means the ER is about to become a war zone. That means Luke is down there, right now, getting ready to catch the wave.
“Terrible,” one of the Board members mutters, checking his Rolex. “Traffic will be a nightmare. I’ll never make my tee time at the club.”
“We should send a statement,” another suggests, tapping his phone. “Thoughts and prayers. It plays well on social media. Alistair, can we get the PR team on a draft? We need to get ahead of the news cycle.”
“Yes, yes,” Alistair says, waving a hand distractedly. “We’ll handle the optics. Preston, quickly, sign the paper so we can wrap this up. We can’t have the meeting drag on; the helicopters make such a racket.”
I freeze.
Optics. Tee times. Helicopters.
I look at Max.
Max isn't looking at the papers. He is staring at his pager, his knuckles white. He is vibrating with the need to go. He knows exactly what is happening in the trauma bay right now. He wants to be there. But he is trapped at the right hand of the Chairman, bound by protocol and expectation.
He looks at me.
Our eyes meet.
He doesn't tell me to sit down. He doesn't tell me to sign. He looks at the pen in my hand, and then he looks at the door.
There is no judgment in his eyes. Only a silent, desperate question.
Are you one of them? Or are you one of us?
I look back at Alistair.
