---
The afternoon brought a steady stream of follow-up work.
Isla checked on the patients from the morning's mass casualty, monitoring vital signs and adjusting treatment plans. She met with the families of the deceased, offering condolences and answering questions. She debriefed with the team, documenting lessons learned and identifying areas for improvement.
It was the unglamorous work of medicine, the part that happened after the dramatic interventions were over. But it mattered. It was what separated good care from excellent care.
She spent an hour with the family of a young woman who had been stabilized but who would face a long recovery. The parents were in shock, grateful and terrified in equal measure. Isla sat with them in the family consultation room and explained whatcame next, what they could expect, how they could help their daughter heal.
"Will she be able to walk again?" The mother's voice was barely a whisper.
"I believe so. The surgery was successful, and the physical therapy team here is excellent." Isla reached out and took the woman's hand. "It will take time. Months, probably. But she's strong, and she has good support."
The father cleared his throat. "We heard about what happened. Last year. With your suspension."
Isla felt a moment of tension, then let it go. "That's true."
"The nurses told us you're the best trauma surgeon in the state. That you fight for your patients even when the administration tries to stop you."
"I do what I think is right for the people under my care. Sometimes that means disagreeing with the people who sign my paychecks."
"Thank you." The father's eyes were wet. "For saving our daughter. For being the kind of doctor who fights."
It was moments like this that made everything else worthwhile. The politics, the investigations, the months of uncertainty, none of it mattered when she was sitting with a family who still had their loved one because Isla had been there when it counted.
At four o'clock, she got a text from Marianne.
Heard about this morning. Are you okay?
I'm good. Really good. It worked, Marianne. The new protocols actually worked.
Of course they did. They were designed by someone who understood what clinicians actually need.
With input from someone who understood what clinicians actually do.
A pause. Then:We make a good team.
We do.
Later, during a quiet moment in the locker room, Isla stared at her reflection in the mirror. The woman looking back at her was tired, dark circles under her eyes from the long morning. But there was something else there too. A calm she hadn't seen in months. A confidence that went deeper than professional competence.
She had been so afraid of what would happen if she returned to Oakridge. Afraid that the institution would find new ways to undermine her. Afraid that the progress they had made would be temporary, that everything would eventually slide back into the dysfunction she had left behind.
But today had proven that change was possible. That institutions could learn and grow. That the fight she and Marianne had waged hadn't been for nothing.
The protocols were working. The staff was supported. The patients were being saved.
And for the first time in her career, Isla felt like she was part of a system that actually wanted her to succeed.
---
She found Marianne waiting for her when she got home, dinner already on the table and wine already poured.
"You didn't have to do this."
"I wanted to." Marianne kissed her softly. "You saved lives today. That deserves celebration."
"The team saved lives. I just coordinated."
