"No," Preston interrupts.
He steps forward from where he was leaning against the vending machine. He looks at Ortiz with professional respect.
"A Keurig is insufficient for a woman of your stature, Ms. Ortiz," Preston says smoothly. "If we are doing this, we are doing it properly. I will gut the room. Italian marble countertops. A La Marzocco espresso machine—dual boiler, obviously. I will hire a barista. His name will be Fabio. He will have a ponytail and he will not speak English, he will only speak Coffee."
Ortiz looks at Preston. Her eyes widen slightly.
"Massage chairs?" she asks.
"Zero-gravity heated recliners with shiatsu function," Prestonconfirms. "And I will have the lighting redone by a theatrical designer. You will look radiant."
Ortiz stares at Preston. Then she smiles. It is a slow, satisfied smile.
"I like the spare," she says to Luke. "He has taste."
"He really does," Luke agrees weakly.
"Wait," Preston says, holding up a finger. "But if I do this, Mama… we need to discuss the Dignity Box."
Jax chokes on a laugh. Luke covers his face with both hands, groaning into his palms.
Ortiz’s smile turns razor-sharp. "The Dignity Box stays, Preston."
"It was one time," Preston argues, his composure cracking just slightly. "And the box was all I could find. Keeping that flattened Breville box in your locker is extortion."
"It’s insurance," Ortiz corrects him. "I’ll take the espresso machine, Dr. York. And I’ll take the massage chairs. But the box remains in my custody until I retire. It reminds me that even Yorks have... what was it?Conical burrs?"
Preston turns a violent shade of red. "It makes excellent espresso," he mutters, defeated.
"Deal," Ortiz agrees.
She turns back to me.
"And," she adds, pointing a finger at my chest. "I want veto power on the menu. If I see a single 'deconstructed' taco, or anything that requires a geometric explanation to eat, I am flipping the table."
"Granted," I say. "I prefer my food to be identifiable matter anyway."
"And one more thing," Ortiz says, her eyes narrowing. She looks at Preston again. "You’re coming with me. You’re the shrink. You handle the silence. I handle the noise. When she tries to gaslight them, you call it out. We pincer her."
Preston smiles, regaining his cool. "I believe that strategy has merit. Count me in."
Ortiz nods. She stands up and smooths down her scrubs.
"Alright," she says. "0800 hours. Pick me up. And tell your mother to wear comfortable shoes. Because if she tries to march me through a botanical garden in heels, I will leave her in the compost heap."
Jax exhales, a long, shuddering breath. He reaches across the counter and grabs Ortiz’s hand.
"Thank you, Mama."
"Don't get mushy on me, O’Connell," Ortiz warns, pulling her hand back but smiling warmly at him. "And you," she points to Luke. "Don't let the interns kill anyone."
"I got this, Mom," Luke says.
We turn to leave, walking back toward the ambulance bay doors. The weight on my chest feels lighter. The variables have shifted. We have acquired an asset.
As we push through the doors into the cool night air of New York City, Jax turns to me. He is grinning.
"Did you see that?" Jax asks. "We just drafted a Warlord."
