Chapter One
Miranda
“Why of course, Mr. Brinsley, why wouldn’t I want to smell like vomit?” I mutter, yanking my soiled scrubs over my head, my words echoing in the empty breakroom. The fabric is stiff with God knows what other bodily fluids, and the scent clings to every thread like a toxic perfume. My spare uniform, folded in the back, replaces the one going into my locker.
The old man who just threw up on me ten minutes ago is probably arguing with another nurse now. Sometimes the sanity of this career choice feels questionable at best.
“Seriously, Miranda,” I mutter, pulling on the clean top. “What possessed you to become an ER nurse?”
The question hangs in the air, unanswered. My shoulders ache. My feet throb. Even my hair hurts, pulled too tight in this bun for the last twelve hours. I reach up, and the elastic comes free with a satisfying pull, letting the black strands fall loose around my shoulders. Small mercy.
Sitting down on the bench, I let out a gust of air, rubbing my scalp with my fingers.
I’m so tired.
At times like these, I really want to just quit my job. I could be a travel blogger. I could be a street artist; I’m good with paints. I could set up my own food truck where no one pees or vomits on me or tries to bite me. It’s an entirely different matter that I can’t cook to save my life, but I’m sure I can master a recipe or two.
But none of those options will help me get rid of the sea of debt I am drowning under.
The thought hits me with all the warmth of an ice bath. Mom’s medical bills didn’t magically disappear when she died. If anything, they multiplied like rabbits, breeding late fees and interest charges until the numbers stopped making sense. It’s been a year since she passed, and I’m nowhere close to paying off what I owe.
The grief from the loss washes over me, and I close my eyes, trying to breathe through it. I try not to think about her actively. The sound of her voice still echoes in my ears, and I fear the day I’ll forget what she sounded like.
My eyes burn with tears, and I wipe them away before they can fall. Leaning down, I rub my calves, just as the door swings open and a familiar voice calls my name. I see Brooke Tanner, another ER nurse and one of my closest friends, poking her head in, her blond ponytail swinging. She’s wearing a grimace that makes me stand up. “What’s wrong?”
“You look like hell.”
“I feel worse.” I give her a wan smile. “So what happened?”
“We have an incoming collision,” she says. “All hands on deck. Tie your hair up.”
The door clicks shut behind her before I can respond.
I wait exactly three seconds after she leaves. Then I stomp my foot and scream wordlessly at the ceiling, letting all my frustration pour out in one long, primal sound that does absolutely nothing to make me feel better.
“Of course,” I complain to the empty room, throwing my hands up. “Of course there would be some major accident just an hour before my shift ends. Of course!”
Tying up my hair, I rush out into the hallway, my sneakers squeaking against the linoleum. The fluorescent lights of Silverpeak General Hospital buzz overhead as I move through the corridors toward the ER entrance. I can already hear the ambulances in the distance, their sirens wailing like banshees.
The automatic doors slide open as I reach the bay. Warm night air rushes in, carrying the scent of pine from the mountains. Several nurses are already gathered, preparing for the onslaught. I expect to see the familiar flash of red and white lights, the paramedics wheeling in gurneys with practiced efficiency.
Instead, a bus pulls up.
Not just any bus. A sleek charter bus with “Silverpeak Hockey” emblazoned on the side in silver lettering.
The doors hiss open, and large, hulking men in dark blue hockey uniforms come pouring out. They’re not walking. They’re running, and several of them are carrying people in their arms like the victims weigh nothing at all. One player has an elderly woman cradled against his chest. Another has a teenager slung over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.
The nurses around me freeze, bewildered. This isn’t protocol. This isn’t how things are done.
A man in an expensive charcoal suit steps through the chaos, moving with the kind of authority that parts crowds. He’s older, maybe late fifties, with salt and pepper hair and dark eyes that assess everything in a single sweep.
“Who’s in charge here?” His voice cuts through the commotion.
I’m a senior nurse. The attending physician is handling the ambulances. That leaves me.
“Me,” I say, stepping forward. “Miranda Carver. What’s going on?”
The man extends his hand. “Leon Ramirez. Coach of the Silverpeak Hockey team. We were returning from an away game when there was a chain collision on Route 7. It’s bad. Multiple vehicles involved. There are a lot of people injured, and the ambulances couldn’t handle everyone.” He gestures to the players still emerging from the bus. “The ones who could be safely moved we brought ourselves.”
