I send Nomi a flurry of texts since she’s Mr. Gutierrez’s emergency contact, but I can’t wait for a response before getting him to the hospital. I just hope she reads them. I’ve been trying to give her the space she needs, but every day she’s felt more distant. I keep telling myself that oncewe win the hearing, we’ll pick up where we left off, butcanwe? Or is she making Wildwood a casual, one-off thing, after all? The thought feels like a screwdriver grinding into my sternum, taking me apart.
The drive to Philly Gen passes in a blur of brake lights, toll plazas, and insane New Jersey drivers, seriously, what iswrongwith my people? As we cross the Ben Franklin bridge into Philadelphia, a sea of high-rises greets us. Crossing this bridge used to feel like an escape hatch out of being a D’Angelo and the baggage that name holds in Sparrow Nook, the city’s skyline filling me with visceral relief.
But now, it’s just a skyline. A perspective that no longer fits. And as I glance at Mr. Gutierrez’s rigid body laid out in the front seat of my car, it’s a means to getting my patient the help he needs, urgently.
We roll up to the hospital’s valet, and I leap from the car, calling for a wheelchair as I throw my keys to the attendant. I push Mr. Gutierrez through the patient entrance to the ER. It’s chilling, being on this side of the equation.
I charge through the reception area, ready to use him like a wheel-bound battering ram to get to the back.
“Excuse me, sir?SIR.” The reception desk attendant stands and yells through the hole in the glass safety partition.
Shit.Cynthia. ER physicians have a somewhat fraught relationship with administrative staff, and for good reason. They think we’re dramatic entitled shitheads, and… well. We are.
Mr. Gutierrez whimpers as I abruptly freeze, then wheel him toward the desk. I take a deep breath as I approach, my left wrist tingling ominously like a dickhead portent.
Lower your fists, Julian, Nomi’s voice reminds me, the proverbial angel sitting on my shoulder.You don’t need to come out swinging.
“Dr. D’Angelo?” Cynthia’s stern voice turns baffled as I smile through the window. “What’reyoudoing here?”
“Hey, Cynthia.” I smile at the second attendant, too. “Hey, Dashonda. Listen, I need your help getting this patient admitted to the Neuro ICU immediately, skipping straight past the ER wait. What can you do for us?”
“Why are you wheeling random old people up to my desk, asking for things you know I can’t do?” Cynthia folds her arms. “We have a protocol, Dr. D’Angelo.”
I breathe deeply. “I wouldn’t ask you to break protocol unless I was certain that’s what this patient needs. And he needs help right now, Cynthia. He cannot afford to wait.”
Cynthia eyes me doubtfully.
“I’ll take whatever heat comes for breaking protocol, I swear. And don’t tell me you can’t get around the rules. You know this place inside and out.”
It’s true, I’m not saying this to suck up to her. Cynthia’s been here for twenty years and runs this whole floor.
Her eyebrows lift. “Something’s happened to you.” She gestures at the entirety of me with one finger. “This is weird.”
“Please, Cynthia? I won’t ask for anything else, ever again. And—and I’ll make you a coffee and bring it to you after I get him settled.” I clasp my hands together. “Heavy cream, light on the sugar, right? You want one, too, Dashonda?”
Dashonda looks alarmed. “Um, yes?”
Cynthia presses her eyes closed and sighs. “Fine, but if Dr. Riveras comes at me for this, I’m sending her your way.”
“Thank you, Cynthia!” I call out over my shoulder as she presses the button, and the doors to the back open.
“And no Splenda!” Cynthia yells after me. “Cane sugar, you hear me?”
After I get Mr. Gutierrez buzzed into the Neuro ICU and snatch my favorite neurologist for him, I head to the breakroom to fulfill my coffee promises. I brew a fresh pot, get them fixed up just right, and am about to head back to the reception area when a throat clears behind me.
“Dr. D’Angelo. What thehellare you doing here?”
I wince, then spin slowly, holding the coffees. “Dr. Riveras… great to see you.”
Her eyebrow’s arched as she blocks the way out.
I sigh. “Listen, I’ll explain, but can you walk with me while I do? I need to deliver these before they get cold.” Dr. Riveras’s frown deepens, but hot coffee is sacred at Philly Gen, so grudgingly, she follows me to reception while I tell her everything: Mr. Gutierrez’s ongoing issues, the akinesia, my suspicions for diagnosis, and because Cynthia’s already giving big narc energy as we approach, how I convinced the staff into letting me bypass the ER straight for the Neuro ICU.
Dr. Riveras grunts as I pass Cynthia’s and Dashonda’s coffees over the partition. “This is all very…”
I brace myself for the worst.Out of line. Irresponsible. Entitled.
“… weird.”
