Chapter 9 Most people spend their lives trying to avoid hospitals. Me? I'm the freak who finds them comforting. The fluorescent lights remind me less of sickness and more of late nights in the cafeteria with Dad, him grading resident evaluations while I demolished chocolate chip cookies. The antiseptic smell doesn't make me nauseous-it takes me back to early mornings in the doctor's lounge, playing games on his phone while he prepped for surgery. Even the sterile white walls feel like home, like all those weekends I spent curled up in the medical library, pretending to read journals that were way above my eight-year-old comprehension level. St. Raphael's has always been my sanctuary. So why am I standing in front of my locker right now, staring at my scrubs like they're prison clothes? Because, for the first time in my entire career, I'd rather be anywhere else. Like, say, back at home in my pajamas, drinking coffee that doesn't taste like it was filtered through wet cardboard. Maybe lying in bed, letting my mind wander to⁠- No. Stop. Don't even think about⁠- But it's too late. My brain is off and running, conjuring up more of the same fantasies that have haunted me every night for a week. Fantasies of a man with moss green eyes and massive hands dragging me into a supply closet. Of a white dressing room, a black dress, a red bloodstain, a big mistake. Watercolor fragments of things that never should've happened. "Dr. Fairfax?" I jerk back to reality. Dr. Michelle Abel is watching me from across the locker room, concern creasing her forehead. "You okay?" she asks. "You look like you're about to be sick." If only she knew. "Fine. Just still getting over that flu." That's a half-assed lie, if that. But what else am I supposed to say? Sorry, I'm having dirty thoughts about the mob boss who kidnapped me last week. Gimme just a sec-I was almost at the good part. "That's right." Michelle nods sympathetically. "Lucky you left early that day. Before the... incident." The incident. That's what everyone's calling it. Like calling it something neutral and sanitized, something HR-approved, will make the bloodstains disappear from the hallway. "Yeah. Lucky," I echo. I extract my scrubs from my locker and slam the door. "You sure you're ready to be back?" Michelle presses. "You seem distracted." Distracted is one word for it. Completely fucked up in the head might be more accurate. "I'm fine," I lie again as I quickly change into my work clothes. "Just need to get back into the rhythm, that's all." The millisecond I'm dressed, I wave goodbye to Michelle and start my rounds. But when I turn the corner to see the nurses' station, I dig in my heels and frown. "Morning, Dr. Fairfax!" Marissa looks up at me happily. She's all sunshine and smiles, probably because she wasn't here when bullets started flying. Her cheerfulness grates against my nerves. "Where are Sonya and Adelaide?" Her smile falters slightly. "They're not scheduled today. Me, Beverly, and Hayden are covering." "That's... that's not right. Check the schedule again." I realize I'm coming off like a stone-cold bitch, so I force a smile and add, "Please." Marissa's fingers fly over the keyboard, but I already know what she'll find. Nothing. Because Kovan Krayev doesn't leave loose ends. My heart starts up a dull, thudding rhythm of dread in my chest. "I'm sorry," she says with a shrug. "That's all I have. Maybe they switched shifts?" Or maybe they're dead. Maybe he killed them. I grip the counter to steady myself, fighting the urge to vomit. My pager buzzes on my hip. As disgusted as I am with myself-a Code Red call means someone's child is dying, for God's sake-I am sneakily grateful for the distraction. I need something to focus on besides the growing certainty that I'm complicit in something horrible. That Sonya and Adelaide are bound and gagged in some dank warehouse in the Mission, waiting for a miserable end to their lives, all because they happened to see the wrong man's face at the wrong time. I leave all that behind as I pivot and run. I go as fast as I can toward the ER, muscle memory taking over. This is what I know. This is what I'm good at. This is all I can do. The chaos of the emergency room welcomes me back. Parents crying in the hallway, nurses rushing between beds, the pent-up panic that means someone's life hangs in the balance. "Talk to me," I bark, pushing through the crowd around a gurney. "Ruptured appendix," Dr. Carter reports. "Eight-year-old male, presented with severe abdominal pain." Eight years old. The same age as⁠- Stop. Focus. "OR, now," I order. "Before peritonitis sets in." As we race toward the operating room, I grab the boy's small hand. He's writhing in pain, sweat beading his forehead, eyes fluttering between consciousness and oblivion. I read his name off the chart clipped to the foot of his bed. "Hey, Robbie," I say softly, even though I don't know if he can hear me. "I've got you, okay? You're going to be fine." It's not about the words. It never is. It's about the tone, the human connection in the middle of medical chaos. The promise that someone cares whether you live or die. The way Kovan cared about Luka. I shake my head, forcing the comparison away. This isn't about him. This is about the child on my table, the child I can save. "Where's anesthesia?" I call over my shoulder. The reply comes immediately: "Dr. Gupta's prepping now." Minutes later, we're in surgery. My hands move on their own, muscle memory guiding me through the familiar steps. Find the appendix. Assess the damage. Remove the threat. But something's wrong with the monitoring equipment. The readings are erratic, jumping between normal and critical without explanation. "What the hell-" I start. The machine lets out a shrill alarm, then goes silent. "Dr. Gupta, switch to manual monitoring. Now." My hands don't shake-they can't, not in here-but inside, I'm screaming. Before Kovan burst into my life, this was the only war I cared about. Jeremy and Shana-God, it's been a whole week since I cursed their names. I'm cursing them now, though. This equipment is their fault. The ever-growing stack of maintenance and funding requests piled up on their desk? That's their fault. And if this boy dies... That will be their fucking fault, too. I hope the profit margin is worth it. We finish the surgery using backup equipment and prayer. Robbie makes it through. But barely. Just barely. "I'm going to kill him." The doctors' lounge door slams behind me with enough force to rattle the windows. My hands are shaking now, adrenaline and rage making them useless for anything requiring fine motor control. "You need to calm down," Amrita warns, following me inside. I whirl on her. "We almost lost a child today because Jeremy Fleming won't approve a single equipment upgrade. How exactly am I supposed to 'calm down' about that?" Amrita pulls her hair from its ponytail, exhaustion pulsing in every line of her face. "It was my fault for using that machine. We all know it's been glitchy." "No!" I pound my fist on the table, ignoring the pain that shoots up my arm. "That's exactly the problem. We all know the equipment is failing, and we're just working around it like it's acceptable. Like, oopsie, sorry, Mom and Dad, guess your son died because the thingamabob didn't work right! Do we just write those kids off? Is there a tax perk for that? More dead kids mean Christmas bonuses are higher?" "What's the alternative, Vesper?" she asks hopelessly. "We've tried everything. Committees, proposals, formal complaints. You know it as well as I do: Nothing changes." "Then we make it change." "How? What is there left to do?" The helplessness in her voice breaks something inside me. Because she's right. We're fighting a war with water guns against an army with tanks. Unless... Unless we had backup. "Vesper." Amrita's voice is gentler now. "You know I can't stand with you on this, right? Not publicly, I mean." "Why the hell not?" "You know why." I sink into the chair across from her. "Because you're not white." "Because I'm expendable." She meets my eyes without flinching. "Five doctors fired in two years. Three Black, two Asian. You think that's a coincidence?" Shame burns through me. I'd noticed the pattern, had even mentioned it to the board. But I'd never truly understood what it meant for my colleagues who don't have the protection of being Thomas Fairfax's daughter. "I'm sorry⁠-" "Don't apologize. Just understand. You can afford to be righteous. The rest of us can't." She's right, but that doesn't make the truth easier to swallow. I have privilege, and I've been wasting it on polite requests and proper channels. Maybe it's time to try a different approach. "Uh-oh. I know that face. What are you thinking?" Amrita asks. I stand up. "I'm thinking maybe it's time to fight fire with fire." "What does that mean?" I grab my lab coat, mind already racing with possibilities. I don't know how I'll find him or how I'll convince him to help. But one way or another, I'm going to make this happen. "It means I'm done asking nicely."