Chapter 1
Mia
Iarrive at Sierra Mercy Medical Center precisely forty minutes early because that's the kind of anxious overachiever I am. My hands keep smoothing down my perfectly pressed navy slacks even though they don't need it, and my heart's doing this fluttery thing that makes me wonder if I should diagnose myself with arrhythmia. But it's not a medical condition—it's just the realization that in less than an hour, I'll be face-to-face with Dr. Sebastian Walker, the brilliant diagnostician whose paper on the N1H1 virus made me reconsider everything I thought I knew about viral mutations.
The automatic doors part with a soft whoosh, welcoming me into the bright atrium. I pause just inside, taking a deep breath of that familiar hospital scent—antiseptic with notes of burnt coffee and something floral trying desperately to mask it all. Home. A new one, but still.
Sierra Mercy isn't the biggest hospital I've ever been in, but it's certainly the most elegant. Sunlight pours through the glass, casting long golden rectangles across the polished floor. The reception desk curves in a sleek half-moon of brushed steel andwhite quartz. Even the chairs in the waiting area look like they were designed by someone who actually sat in one once—an anomaly in hospital architecture.
I scan the lobby, cataloging details the way Dad taught me to examine an engine. Systematically, looking for what works and what doesn't. The digital directory blinks with department listings. The coffee kiosk already has a line despite the early hour. A security guard nods at a passing nurse. A janitor pushes a mop across—
My eyes stop on a figure at the far end of the lobby.
Middle-aged man, maybe fifty-five, sitting forward in his chair, one hand pressed against his chest. His face has that gray undertone that makes my internal alarms blare. He reaches for a water bottle with a trembling hand and misses twice before grasping it.
I don't realize I'm moving toward him until I'm halfway across the lobby.
The man stands unsteadily, takes two steps, and his knees buckle. His hand claws at his left shoulder, then his neck.
"Sir?" I call out, picking up speed. "Sir, are you alright?"
He doesn't answer. Instead, his eyes roll upward as his legs give out completely.
I sprint the remaining distance and reach him just as he crumples. I catch his upper body before his head can crack against the tile, easing him down with as much control as my five-foot-ten frame can manage against his deadweight.
"I need help over here!" I shout, my voice carrying that authoritative edge they teach you in emergency medicine rotations. Then, lower, to the man: "Sir, can you hear me?"
No response. His skin is clammy, lips tinged blue. I press my fingers to his carotid—nothing.
"Cardiac arrest," I mutter, already shifting into position. I tilt his head back, clear his airway, and start compressions. One,two, three—the familiar rhythm takes over. The world narrows to just this: my hands on his chest, the count in my head, the absolute certainty of what needs to be done.
"Ma'am, you can't do that." A voice filters through my concentration. A nurse in light blue scrubs appears in my peripheral vision. "Security!"
I don't stop. "I'm a doctor," I say between compressions. "This man is in cardiac arrest. Call a code and get a crash cart here now."
"You can't just—"
"Twenty-nine, thirty." I pause, tilt his head again, deliver two rescue breaths, then resume compressions. "I'm Dr. Mia Phillips, incoming diagnostics fellow. I start today. This man needs immediate intervention or he won't make it to your ER."
Another face appears—a security guard who looks a bit uncertain. The nurse turns to him. "She just ran up and started—"
"Look at him," I interrupt, not breaking rhythm. "Cyanosis, diaphoresis, he was clutching his left arm before collapsing. Classic MI. No pulse, no respiration. Are you going to stand there debating hospital policy while he dies, or are you going to get me a fucking defibrillator?"
Something in my voice—or maybe just the medical terminology—finally gets through. The nurse's expression shifts. She nods at the security guard, who speaks rapidly into his radio.
"Code Blue, main lobby," the nurse calls out, finally moving with purpose. "I'll get the crash cart."
I return my full attention to the man beneath my hands. His face is slack, gray-tinged skin pulled loose around the jaw. Late fifties, I revise my earlier assessment. No medical alert bracelet.
"Come on," I murmur, feeling the resistance of his sternum under my palms. Thirty compressions, two breaths. Repeat. "Stay with me."
People gather around us, their voices a distant murmur beyond the focused tunnel of my attention. Someone tries to pull me away. I shrug them off without looking up.
"I've got this," I say firmly. "Just get me that cart."
Sweat beads along my hairline, threatening to drip into my eyes. I blow upward, trying to dislodge a curl that's escaped my braid. My arms burn, but the alternative isn't an option. Not when I can feel how newly dead he is. Not when there's still a chance.
A memory flashes—Dad in his hospital bed, the machines flat-lining, me frozen in the doorway as the code team rushed in. Too late then. Not too late now.
