pleasantly diabolical

You’re charting at one of the rolling computers outside Central 6, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, your lower back screaming from hours of half-bending, half-standing, and half-running. It’s not even a trauma-heavy shift (so far), just busy. A nonstop carousel of kids with fevers, shortness of breath, and falls in the playground. Flu season has sharpened its claws, and every parent seems to have the same panic in their voice as they rush their child in. He’s never coughed like this before, not like this.

You’ve stopped counting how many times you’ve nodded when they explain why they haven’t gotten the flu shot, how many albuterol doses you’ve ordered, and how many parents you’ve reassured that, yes, the fever looks scary, but this is exactly what we’d expect on day three of a viral process. You’ve written some variation of "educated on precautions, supportive care discussed” in nearly every chart for the last three hours. 

Princess passes by you in a blur, calling out, “Heads up, Central 2’s kid just puked on the floor.” 

You sigh through your nose. Of course it’s Central 2, the cursed room. You were trying to avoid it today (and most days, if you’re honest), out of superstition if nothing else, but it seems the ER gods have other plans. 

“Got it,” you call after her, saving your work and spinning to head that way. 

By the time you reach the room, the mess has been mostly contained thanks to Jessie, and the kid is crying softly while his mom rubs his back. He’s small, maybe five or six, cheeks flushed and sweaty, with a little strand of hair stuck to his forehead. You swap out his emesis bag, adjust the Zofran dose, and soothe him with the soft, practiced rhythm you’ve built over years of peds rotations and endless overnight shifts. Disney Junior on the TV does the trick to get a little smile out of him, and you leave Jessie with a smile as he hangs a new saline bag. 

“Need a hand anywhere, Doct—Scout?” Whitaker asks when you step out, half-jogging toward the Hub with a tablet in one hand and a pretzel rod in the other. 

You glance at your tablet, checking to see if any of your patients could use some extra attention or if Dennis could use the practice with any of them. “That depends. Do you want to do a workup for rotavirus, flu, or kidney stones?” 

Whitaker crinkles his nose, taking a bite of his pretzel, and shakes his head. “I’ll go find Dana.” 

You laugh, pointing him towards South. “I think she might have stepped out for a cigarette, but I’m sure Robby can find you something to do. The devil makes work of idle hands, so get busy.” 

You leave him near the charge desk and duck into North 4 to check on a girl who bumped her head during gym class. Her exam is clean, but she’s anxious about being able to go to cheer practice tomorrow, and her dad looks like he’s trying not to cry. You explain the concussion precautions, print out the return-to-play protocol, and tell them that Perlah will be by in a bit to get them discharged. You smile at her dad on your way out. “You’re doing a really good job, Dad.” His eyes shine when he thanks you. 

The next chart is already waiting. And the next. And the next. 

You’re halfway through writing a note, “three-day history of fevers, mild congestion, decreased appetite,” when you hear it. 

“Dr. Whitmore. Meet me in my office when you have a minute.” 

You look up from the chart you were finishing and catch Gloria already turning away, tablet tucked under one arm, her heels clicking towards the elevators. Her tone wasn’t urgent or mean, but there was the underlying feeling that the minute you had needed to be sooner rather than later. 

You exhale slowly and close the chart with a few clicks, already cataloging your patients in your head: who’s stable, who might need checking in on, and how long this might take. 

Then you move. 

Dana’s behind the Hub, sorting through wristbands and labeling labs. She doesn’t look up when you approach, but her voice is dry. “I heard her.”

“I figured.” You try to keep your tone even. “Just letting you know, in case anyone starts looking for me.” 

Dana nods, giving you a reassuring smile, like she already had it planned the second Gloria said your name. You squeeze her wrist gently and thank her for watching your board. 

You duck into Central, scanning the board. “Hey, Langdon,” you call out, catching him just as he’s finishing up a note. “Can you keep an eye on my rooms? South 2 is stable; just needs discharge instructions. Central 4’s peds asthma with albuterol running, and Central 2 is more than likely the flu; labs are running, and Jessie is on top of everything. I’ll be back in a bit.” 

Langdon eyes you. “Everything okay?”

You nod. “Yeah, I just got called upstairs.” 

He hums like he doesn’t quite believe you, but doesn’t push it. “Got it. I’ll make sure they don’t burn the place down.” 

Flashing a quick grin, you pivot toward the elevators tucked past the secured badge reader door near the back hallway. The noise of the ER fades as you walk, and when you come to the elevators, you catch your reflection as you wait for the doors to open. 

You look a mess. 

You roll your shoulder back, straighten your badge clip, and smooth a hand over your scrub top like it makes a difference. There was no saving the flyaway curls that were doing their best to escape the claw clip pulling them away from your face, but you did your best to tuck some of the mess behind your ears. 

The elevator dings. You step inside, hit “12,” and exhale again as the doors slide shut. You’re instantly wrapped in that oppressive silence that only lives beyond the ER, where it’s just the sound of your own heartbeat thumping heavily. 

One. 

You press your tongue to the roof of your mouth and count your breaths. One. Two. Three. 

You are not in trouble. 

You probably aren’t in trouble. 

Except…

Press Ganey scores? 

Two. 

Your mind flicks through the last few weeks like flashcards, trying to remember if you snapped at a family member, if you discharged someone too quickly, if that guy in Central 5, the one who didn’t want a “female” treating him, filled out a comment card.

No, wait. 

Maybe it’s a patient complaint. Maybe someone escalated. Maybe you missed something, a lab, or an image, or a subtle sign, and now someone’s upstairs in the ICU, intubated and septic and maybe dying and— 

You scrub a hand down your face. 

Three.

It’s not that. 

Robby would have warned you, right? If there was a lawsuit coming, if admin was gearing up to fire you, he wouldn’t just let you walk blind into an ambush. He wouldn’t. He would have said something. 

Unless he didn’t know. Unless you’re not just in trouble, you’re alone in it. 

Four.

Your stomach drops as the elevator slows briefly, then rises again. You check your badge again, even though you know it’s fine. Is this about a med student? Did you miss a teaching moment? Did someone say you weren’t approachable? That you were too fast, too blunt, and not mentor-y enough? Did someone file something with the fellowship committee? 

You force your jaw to unclench and try to calm yourself, without much success. 

Five.

You’re a good doctor. That’s what everyone says. Thorough, efficient, and calm under pressure. But Gloria doesn’t care about looks. She cares about the actuality. What if you don’t come across as confident enough or too confident? What if they think you’re too close to families, too soft with kids, too soft with everything?

You shift your weight from one foot to the other and scratch your index finger against your thumb, grounding yourself in the repetitive motion. You didn’t even think to grab a water, and now your throat feels dry.

Six.

Maybe this is about your notes. You triple-check every chart, but what if you missed something? A mistyped dosage, a decimal in the wrong place, a timestamp logged wrong? You caught that error last week in the Jackson kid’s discharge, just a unit off, but still. What if they logged it? What if that’s what this is? 

A warning? A write-up? A strike? 

You told yourself it didn’t matter because it got caught early, because no one was harmed, but now you’re not so sure.

Seven. 

The numbers about the doors tick upward with a soft blink, dread filling you more and more as the numbers climb higher. 

Your mind flicks sideways. What if this isn’t even about the ER? What if something happened with Lily? A hospital tried to call you and couldn’t get through? What if she listed you somewhere as a financial contact without telling you, listed your job as proof of income, and now you’re tangled in something you can’t afford to carry? 

The idea sparks sharp and fast, then skitters away. This isn’t about Lily. This isn’t about your sister. 

Probably.

Eight. 

You don’t usually come this high up unless you’re forced to. Orientation sessions, obligatory rotations across different specialties, credentialing renewals, and, once for a diversity initiative meeting everyone was forced to attend. This is where people go for career conversations. Where doors open for promotions or problems. 

You’ve never been invited up on such short notice before.

And now you feel like it’s on the problem side of things. 

Nine. 

You try to shake it off again. You think of the kid in South 3 who called you "Doctor Lady" all shift and asked if you knew any magic tricks. Think of the mom you brought extra diapers for after her baby came in with a bad diaper rash and you saw a parent who was struggling to make a pack of diapers last a week. Think of the quick squeeze to Dana’s wrist before you stepped onto this elevator, her nod as she told you she’d keep an eye on your board. 

You show up. You care. You chart every detail and follow every lead. You teach, you stay late, you take the residents everyone else avoids, and you handle it. 

So why does it feel like it’s suddenly not enough? 

Ten.

Could this be about your future at PTMC? About staying after your fellowship? You always tell yourself not to think about it, but you always do, especially when your shift winds down and you catch Robby glancing at you like he’s already seeing next year. 

It’s too soon. The fellowship isn’t over for months. They don’t make those calls yet. 

Do they? 

Unless you’re not making the cut. Unless they want someone else to fill the position you have been fighting for for 8 years. 

You try to swallow past the lump in your throat, but it doesn’t go away. 

Eleven. 

You adjust your badge again. Straighten your spine and breathe in. Breathe out. 

You’ve faced codes and traumas and screaming parents at 3 am. You’ve cracked chests, pushed drugs, held hands through death and diagnosis. You have run towards things no one else wanted to touch. 

And now you’re standing in an elevator, your heart pounding like it’s never done any of that. Like whatever is on the other side of these doors is going to potentially break you like the ER never could. 

A soft ‘ding.’

The number changes.  

Twelve.

The upper admin hallway is too quiet and too far removed from the chaos that lives below it. You step out of the elevator, the plush carpet so different from the tile of the ER, and it’s just another reminder that you’re somewhere you don’t belong. The walk is short, just long enough to pass the framed photos of board members and foundation events and abstract paintings that are meant to make the place feel polished. Somewhere behind one of these doors, someone is finalizing a grant or approving a budget, making decisions that ripple down through the hospital like a leaf in a still pond. 

You reach the door with a placard outside that reads “Gloria Underwood,” and you knock before you can chicken out. 

“Come in,” Gloria says from behind the door, and you take a deep breath before stepping inside. Her office is exactly what you’d expect: sleek lines, a tidy desk, not a single paper out of place. A neatly curated bookshelf lines one wall, part medical texts, part policy manuals, and part decorative filler. The only hint of softness is a small ceramic bowl of hard candies resting near the edge of the desk, untouched.

Gloria doesn’t look up right away. She’s reading something on her tablet, stylus tapping once against the corner, marking a note of some sort. You hover just inside the door, trying not to feel like a kid sent to the principal’s office.

She’s dressed in her usual armor of a nice blazer, neutral blouse, and gold hoop earrings that probably cost more than a week's pay for you. Her posture is impeccable, spine straight, shoulders square, and eyes locked in a kind of focus that makes your stomach churn. 

She greets you with a nod and a clipped, “Dr. Whitmore. Thank you for coming up,” like this is just another item on her calendar, sandwiched between a committee meeting and a press review.

You echo a polite “Of course” and sit when she gestures. The chair is too soft, and Gloria, Chief Medical Officer of Pittsburg Trauma Medical Center, doesn’t speak right away. She just scrolls on her tablet, eyes narrowed slightly. 

You try not to fidget.

“I’ve been reviewing your file,” she says at last, her tone smooth but impersonal. “You’ve been with us a long time.”

You nod once. “Eight years.” 

Gloria keeps scrolling. “You did your undergraduate and medical training at UNC Chapel Hill. Strong academic performance. A few early flags for time management, but no concerns about professionalism. Honors in both your third-year pediatric and emergency medicine clerkships. Letters of recommendation from Dr. Valerie Ames and Dr. Jonathan Kim.”

You had worked so hard for those letters. Dr. Ames had made you redo the same case presentation four times until you understood what she meant by concise confidence. Dr. Kim, whose notoriously high standards made it all the more shocking when he pulled you aside after your final shift and told you he’d be happy to recommend you. 

Gloria taps again.

“You matched here at PTMC for your intern year. The top half of your class. Excellent performance in your rotations—internal medicine, surgery, OB, and trauma. Comments about your composure under pressure. You completed your full residency in emergency medicine and then applied for a Pediatric Emergency Medicine fellowship. Impressive continuity.” 

“Thank you,” you say, because you’re not sure what else to offer. Another flick of the stylus, another line drawn under your file. 

“Dr. Robinavitch and Dr. Abbot both submitted letters in support of your current fellowship. Both speak highly of your clinical judgment and your role in team dynamics. Overwhelmingly, your fellow residents and attending physicians have spoken highly of you.”

Gloria sets the tablet down now, folding her hand lightly on the desk in front of her. Her gaze sharpens, not harshly but assessing.

“You’ve built a reputation here, Dr. Whitmore. You are, without question, technically excellent. However…”

Your breath catches slightly, and you force yourself not to panic. 

She leans forward a fraction. “Technical excellence is not the only metric we consider when looking at who deserves placement once a fellowship ends. So let’s talk about the rest.” 

The quiet that follows is oppressive, and you feel like you’re under a microscope. “Your file is full of glowing recommendations and evidence of your strong evaluations, which is why I find it…notable,” Gloria continues, finally meeting your eyes, “that when I spoke to the fellowship director last week, they used the phrase ‘still finding her footing.’” 

It lands like a punch to the gut. You try not to flinch, but your pulse stutters. “I-I wasn’t aware that was the perception.” 

Her gaze doesn’t soften. “Should you have been?”

“I…I try to keep my head down, but as you said, I’m solid under pressure. I’m reliable—”

“Yes,” she interrupts. “That’s the word I keep hearing. Reliable. Dependable. Quite. You get good marks, your notes are clean, and your outcomes are strong. No one has anything bad to say about you.” 

The pause that follows cuts deeper than anything else she could have said. “But?”

“But after eight years,” Gloria says, steepling her fingers, “I don’t think they say much of anything at all.” 

Your chest tightens, your fingers clenching in your lap to hide the way they tremble. “Ma’am, with all due respect, I don’t think I need to be loud to be effective. I’ve run codes. I’ve led teams. I’ve trained interns. I’m—”

“You’re competent. That’s not the concern,” she interrupts, holding up a hand. “I’m not questioning your clinical skills. I’m questioning your presence. When chaos hits, when the more senior attendings are busy, do people look to you? When you speak, does the room shift? Or are you just another pair of scrubs in the hallway, one more doctor they can’t quite remember by the end of the shift?”

You force yourself to breathe through the flush creeping up your neck. “I don’t think being in the background means I’m not pulling my weight,” you say quietly. 

Gloria tilts her head, her expression unreadable. “No,” she says slowly, “but it does mean you’re forgettable.” 

You blink. “I know what kind of doctor I am. I’m not forgettable to my patients or their families. Or the interns who need a steady hand when they’re panicking. I don’t scream or grandstand, but I show up. Every time.”

Gloria watches you for a long moment. “Then it’s time that the rest of the hospital sees this side of you, too.” She set her tablet aside, leveling you with a look of calculation. “You’ll be assigned two medical students to shadow you over the next six weeks. I’ve already cleared it with the fellowship director. One is a third-year, Javadi, who you know, and one is a preclinical observer from Carnegie Mellon. This isn’t optional.” 

Your mouth opens and then closes. “Yes, ma’am.” 

Gloria offers you a thin smile. It’s not warm, but it’s not dismissive either. “Good. That’ll be all.” 

You rise, face on fire, not bothering to thank her on your way out. 

Dana catches your elbow as you arrive back in the pit, her eyes narrowed, searching your face for a clue as to what went on in the upper floors.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you say, giving her a reassuring smile. You can’t get into all your feelings right now, not when the board is blinking heavily at you. “Just eval stuff. I’ll fill you in later.”

She doesn’t push, but her gaze lingers a second longer than necessary before she flicks her attention back to the board behind her. 

“South 6’s family is asking for you. You’re fine on the others; Langdon’s covering North 3, and Collins took Central 2.”

“Thanks.” You squeeze her wrist lightly as you leave, and she gives your hand a quick, grounding pat before letting go.  

You make it about ten steps before you feel him watching. He’s not being obvious about it, but you feel the hairs at the back of your neck rise, and your eyes dart to the corner where he usually charts between rounds, and sure enough, there he is. He’s leaning back against the wall, tablet in one hand, coffee in the other. His eyes are on the screen when you look, but they shift up just as you do, and you can see his expression soften. His head tilts a little to the left, his brows furrow slightly, and he has the same “you okay?” expression he’s been giving you since intern year. 

You smile at him to let him know you’re alright, then duck around the corner into South’s nursing station to check the latest labs before heading to South 6, but your breath catches when you spot the little sticky note that wasn’t there when you left. 

It's a sketch this time, a little scribbled version of you with spiraled curls, an oversized badge with a smiley face on it, circle fists at her sides, with little storm clouds hovering over her head. The handwriting is unmistakable after years of practice deciphering the sloped script. 

“Feeling electric today.” 

You grin, tucking the note into your scrubs’ pocket, already feeling lighter since you left Gloria’s office. You check the labs on the computer, noting a few things of concern: a climbing white count, mild acidosis, and still waiting on cultures. Nothing emergent yet, but enough to keep an eye on. You update the chart and then head towards South 6 to give them an update, falling back into the flow of the day, the little Post-it note a comforting weight in your pocket. 

By midafternoon, the hallway smells less like lasagna and more like burnt coffee, and you know McKay is somewhere complaining about people using the coffee pot the wrong way. South 6 settles after fluids and antiemetics, and you move from room to room in a steady orbit, rechecking lungs, reassessing pain scores, and rewriting discharge instructions in simpler language when a grandmother squints at the medical terms and admits she “didn’t finish high school, honey.” 

You’re finishing up charting for Central 3 after listening to a teenager’s lungs while he insists he definitely didn’t vape anything, ever. I promise. You barely controlled your face, leveled him with your best authoritative look, and went down the laundry list of the damage vaping can do, especially to young lungs. He looked sheepish, and you could only hope that maybe he would listen and throw away the vape that was clearly in his pocket. The phone at the Hub rings shrilly, and Dana snatches it up, her eyes narrowing as she listens. “ER,” she says, her tone clipped, and then after a beat, “Copy. Trauma one, we’ll be ready for you.” 

She hangs up and lifts her gaze, already looking for you. 

“Scout,” she calls, her voice level but carrying. “Adult female, pedestrian struck, CPR in progress, no airway. Two-minute ETA.”

The words click into place like dominoes in a line. You close your notes and step out from behind the hub, the gears already turning in your head. “Mateo, crash cart to trauma one. Donnie, airway tray, adult-sized. IO kit out and ready. Whitaker, you’re on time and meds, gloves on, stay clear unless I point at you.” 

You push through the trauma bay doors and snap on a pair of gloves, the elastic biting your wrists. The room feels too bright, the overheads buzzing faintly as Perlah pulls up a blank trauma note. 

“Pads ready, oxygen on,” Mateo says, checking the suction. “Monitor leads set.”

“Good, you reply. “First thing as they come through the doors is compressions and a report.” 

The paramedics arrive in a rush of wheels and shouted numbers. The woman on the stretcher looks smaller than she probably is. She’s limp, blood streaking down from a matted patch of hair at the back of her skull. Her leg is twisted out to the side at an impossible angle, jeans torn open, skin already mottling. 

“Thirty-five-year-old female,” the lead paramedic calls as they roll under the lights. “Struck crossing Carson. Witnesses say she went up onto the hood, then down. Found unresponsive with agonal respirations; deteriorated to full arrest en route. One round of epi, CPR for about eight minutes. No airway secured.” 

“On my count,” you say, stepping to the head of the bed. “One, two, three—transfer.” 

The team moves as one, sliding her onto the hospital bed. Mateo takes over compressions without missing a beat, his hands locked over her sternum.  Donnie moves to the head beside you, BVM in hand.

“Whitaker, time of arrival,” you say.

“Fifteen fifty,” he answers, eyes flicking to the clock.

“Bag between compressions,” you tell Donnie. Short squeezes don’t overinflate. I need suction.”

Her mouth is full of thick, metallic blood pooling in the back of her throat, and you clear it quickly, suction rattling. Her jaw feels loose under your hand, the muscles slack. 

“Pale cords,” you say, more to yourself than anyone else. “Give me a 7-0 tube, stylet in, and watch her teeth.” 

A hand appears with the tube before you finish the sentence. You take the laryngoscope, tilt her head, and slide the scope in. Years of repetition carve a familiar path: down, lift, visualize. 

There. The cords are faint, half obscured by blood, but they’re there. “Tube going in,” you announce. “Pass the stylet.”

You seat the tube, withdraw the stilet, and nod to Donnie. “Bag.” 

Her chest rises under the BVM. The monitor shows a jagged line that isn’t a rhythm so much as a blip. 

“Breath sounds bilateral,” Donnie says, his stethoscope moving quickly. “Good movement.”

“Capno’s turning yellow,” Mateo adds. “Still PEA on the monitor.” 

“Push another milligram of epi,” you say. “Whitaker, call out two-minute cycles. I want a heads-up at one-fifty. If we can get a rhythm, we’ll page respiratory.”

The doors whisper open again behind you, and Robby’s voice is close when you catch him in your peripheral vision as he pulls on gloves, stepping in on the patient’s left. “What’ve we got?” 

“Car versus pedestrian,” you say, eyes on the monitor. Full arrest, about ten minutes of CPR total. One epi in the field, one here. Head trauma, open leg fracture, no obvious chest injuries, but no imaging done yet.”

He takes in the scene with a quick sweep—pads in place, compressions strong, fluids hanging, BVM moving in a steady rhythm.” 

“You want another round after this?” he asks, low, deferring without making it obvious.

“Yeah,” you say. “One more. If no change, we call.” 

He nods once. “Sounds like a plan to me.” 

Whitaker’s voice lifts over the sound of the code. “One-thirty…one-forty…one-fifty…two minutes.”

“Stop compressions,” you say. “Check rhythm.” 

Mateo leans back as the monitor flickers.

“Still PEA,” Robby murmurs. 

You press your fingers into the soft flesh at her neck, then at her groin. Nothing. No flutter. No stubborn, lingering beat. You give it another few seconds anyway. It’s a habit. Respect. Not hope. 

“Time of death,” you say quietly, “fifteen fifty-seven.”

“Fifteen fifty-seven,” Perlah echoes, logging it.

The room exhales. Someone turns the oxygen down. Mateo steps away to peel off his gloves. Donnie starts wiping her face gently, removing some of the blood. 

You ease the tube back a fraction, making sure it's secure for the inevitable trip upstairs to the morgue, then step away from the head of the bed. Your shoulders roll once, twice, shaking off the stiffness. 

“You okay to write the brief?” Robby asks, voice pitched low enough that it doesn’t carry beyond the two of you. 

“Yeah,” you nod. “Whitaker can help with times.”

Robby glances at the monitor, then back to you. His eyes soften, just a fraction, the corner of his mouth pulling up in that half-smile. “Good job,” he says. “You ran it clean.” 

“She was gone before she got here,” you reply. It’s not false modesty, but an unfortunate fact. 

“Maybe,” he says. “Doesn’t change the way you ran the trauma perfectly.” 

You shrug one shoulder, not trusting yourself to say anything that won’t sound defensive or too raw with Gloria’s voice still in your head. 

Forgettable. 

Robby watches you for another second, like he’s thinking of pressing, but he doesn’t. He just nods once, peels off his gloves, and claps a light hand against your arm before he steps out of the bay.

“I’ll let Dana know we’re clear,” he says over his shoulder. “Take a breath, then grab your next. Board’s stacking.” 

You huff out something that’s almost a laugh. “When’s it not?”

He flashes you that same crooked smile and slips back into the hallway. 

You help Donnie reposition the sheet over the woman’s chest, smoothing it once so it doesn’t cling. Then you strip your gloves, wash your hands, and step back into the ER. 

“The paramedics said they couldn’t find an ID on her,” Whitaker says, falling into step beside you as you head back to the hub. “What, uh…what do we do with that? With her. If we don’t even know her name?”

He’s dancing from one foot to the other, looking at you expectantly. 

“Same thing we always do,” you answer. “Chart everything. Social work and the police will run what they’ve got, like street cameras, missing persons, and anything the medics picked up from the scene. She’ll get a Jane Doe tag until someone can put a name to her.” 

He nods but still looks unsettled. “And if no one comes?”

You pause, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Then she still gets treated like she mattered.”

Whitaker nods again, more firmly this time. “Okay. I’ll make sure the report’s clean.” 

“Good.” You give him a quick smile. “Finish the chart; I’ll add my notes to it after, then get some water. You’re still on the rest of the shift.” 

A corner of his mouth twitches. “Yes, ma’am.” 

You leave him with the chart, and Dana catches your attention. “Central 3’s mom is asking how much longer,” she calls. “And Gloria’s office emailed, something about student assignments. I didn’t open it. Looked above my pay grade.” 

“Okay,” you say, raking a hand through your curls and feeling the edges of the sticky note in your pocket when your knuckles brush your scrubs. The little rectangle is warm now, softened by hours of movement. Feeling electric today. 

You sit behind the nearest workstation and log into your email, clicking on the message from “Underwood, Gloria—CMO.” 

The subject line reads: Student Assignments—Emergency Peds Fellowship.

Effective immediately, Victoria Javadi (MS3, PTMC) and Eli Park (Preclinical Observer, Carnegie Mellon University) will be assigned to you for six weeks of clinical shadowing and supervised participation in patient care…

Your eyes skim the rest: dates, expectations, and language about “leadership opportunities” and “developing teaching presence.” Javadi’s name barely registers. You already know how she works, how she hovers at your elbow and asks sharp, efficient questions. The other name snags, a brand-new set of eyes, one more person watching every move you make. 

You breathe in slow. Out again. 

Forgettable. 

You thumb the edge of the sticky note through your pocket and hit reply, typing a short, perfectly professional acknowledgement, logging out, and turning back toward the board. 

Dana appears at your elbow again like she’s been summoned by the tension in your shoulders. “What’s with the face?”

“It’s nothing,” you say automatically.

She arches a brow. “Uh-huh. Try again.” 

You huff out a small breath, folding immediately. “Gloria assigned me med students.” 

Dana grins, her eyes lighting up. “Oh, some baby ducks for Mother Goose.” 

“I am not Mother Goose,” you mutter.

Princess brushes past on her way to South, overhearing just enough to chime in. “You are absolutely Mother Goose,” she laughs, doing a poor imitation of a goose’s honk. 

“Traitor,” you say, but there’s no heat in it.

“How many?” Dana asks. 

“Javadi for six weeks,” you answer, already taking a mental note of who’s in triage and who needs to be seen in a room. “And a CMU preclinical observer, coming in tomorrow.” 

Dana hums, as if that answers a question you didn’t know she had. “Well. It’s about time they made the new kids follow someone who actually knows what they’re doing.” 

You snort. “Pretty sure that’s not how Gloria would phrase it.” 

“Well, Gloria doesn’t work down here, does she?” Dana replies. She squeezes your forearm once, her smile softening. “Yous’ll be fine. You already teach half the pit without a command from above.” 

Princess calls over her shoulder, “Also, Central 3’s mom is about to climb the walls, so if Mother Goose could go honk at her, that’d be great.” 

You roll your eyes, but your mouth tugs upward anyway. “On it.” 

As you step away from the Hub, you catch one last glimpse of Robby down the hall. He’s listening to something Mel is saying, but his gaze flicks toward you for a heartbeat, like he can feel you looking. That same small, private smile ghosts over his mouth before he turns back to his residents. 

You adjust the clip in your hair, feel the reassuring press of the sticky note against your hip, and head toward Central 3. Tomorrow, some kid named Eli Park will walk into the ER with wide eyes and a fresh observer badge, and you’ll have to be someone worth learning from, someone worth remembering. 

Today, you’ve got a waiting mom, a full board, and a shift to finish. 

You tuck the note deeper into your pocket and keep moving.