Today was a relatively slow day in the Pitt, all things considered. They still saw a steady stream of patients, but fewer traumas than usual. Mostly just frequent flyers, basic lacerations, and stomach pains. No one would say it out loud, but it was a needed reprieve from the usual chaos. 

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch leaned against the counter at the charge desk, flipping idly through a chart he’d already read twice, just giving his hands something to do. Dana sat at the desk typing away on the computer; what that was, Robby had no idea. Princess and Perlah were whispering about something in Tagalog. Every so often, Robby would catch them staring at him before they would quickly look away, muttering something he couldn’t understand. Dr. McKay and Dr. Collins sat at some of the miscellaneous computers, catching up on their charting.

“How long has it been since the last ambulance?” someone asked.

“Forty-five minutes,” another nurse replied.

Robby raised an eyebrow. “That can’t be right.”

“Check the board.”

He glanced up at the patient tracker mounted on the wall. Trauma 1 and Trauma 2 had been open for almost 30 minutes. 

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” Dana muttered.

Robby huffed a quiet laugh.

He’d worked in emergency medicine long enough to know exactly how this went. The moment someone acknowledged how slow things were, the universe took it personally. 

Right on cue, the radio at the desk crackled. Every head turned toward it.

“Incoming ambulance, five minutes out,” the dispatcher’s voice said through the speaker. “Male patient, mid-twenties, unresponsive. Suspected overdose.”

Robby straightened, already reaching for a pair of gloves. “Well,” he said, pushing away from the counter. “There it is.”

And just like that, the ER woke up. McKay and Robby both went to grab gloves and gown up while the nurses checked the Trauma rooms. Robby stood in front of the doors to the ambulance bay. He took one breath in, rejuvenizing him. Preparing him for the chaos. 

Only a minute later, the doors swung open. The paramedics pushed the stretcher through quickly, one of them already speaking as they crossed into the room.

“Male, mid-twenties. Found unresponsive about twenty minutes ago. Respirations: 6 per minute when we arrived; pinpoint pupils. Suspected opioid overdose. One dose of naloxone was given in the field with minimal response.” 

The ER team moved around the gurney like a well-oiled machine as they wheeled him to Trauma 1. Someone else caught Robby’s eye, trailing behind the paramedics. Her hair was messy, but it looked intentional. She had dark, slightly smudged makeup on, as if she were rubbing her eyes. She was in a short black mini dress with an oversized zip-up hanging off her shoulders. Tall black boots stopped just below her knees, and the rest of her legs were covered by torn fishnets. She didn’t look up from the man in the stretcher. 

“It’s not an overdose,” she said immediately, voice tight with panic, “He didn’t—he doesn’t do drugs.”

Robby nodded at her, then looked back at the paramedic. “Talk to me.”

The paramedic nodded toward the patient. “Name’s Luke Carter. Collapsed backstage about thirty minutes after their set.”

She shook her head quickly. “He didn’t take anything. He’s sober.” 

The team burst into Trauma 1, leaving the woman standing at the doors. “On my count,” Robby said, grabbing the stretcher, “One, two, three.” The team moved him over to the new bed and started hooking him up to their equipment and IVs.   

 “Please, you have to believe me. He didn’t take anything, I swear,” she said, tears welling up in her eyes.

“I hear you,” he said calmly. “Right now, we just need to stabilize him.”

Robby reached for his penlight and gently lifted one of the patient’s eyelids. His pupils were pinpoint. He glanced toward one of the nurses. “Let’s give another dose of naloxone.”

“He doesn’t need Narcan. He didn’t—”

“I know what you said,” he said more forcefully but still calmly. “We just need to rule it out.”

The nurse pushed the medication through the IV. The room stilled, waiting. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the patient’s body jerked. He sucked in a sharp breath, coughing as his eyes flew open.

“What the—”

“Easy,” Robby said, steadying him as he tried to sit up. “You’re in the emergency department. Try not to move.”

The woman rushed closer to the bedside. “Luke,” she breathed, relief flooding her voice. “Oh, my god.”

He blinked at her, disoriented. “What happened?”

“You collapsed in the Green Room,” she said quickly.

Robby checked the monitor again before speaking.

“You were having trouble breathing. Paramedics suspected an overdose.”

Luke frowned weakly. His eyes darted around the room. “That’s… not possible.”

The woman looked immediately at Robby. “See?”

Robby didn’t argue. He simply nodded toward the nurse. “Let’s send labs and a tox screen.”

Blood vials were already being filled.

Luke leaned back against the pillow, still looking dazed. “I didn’t take anything,” he muttered.

The woman squeezed his hand. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I know.”

Robby watched the pair for another moment before taking off his gloves and gown and tossing them aside. “We’ll know more once the labs come back.”

“That’ll tell you what happened?” The woman asked. 

“Hopefully.”