Sign the resignation letter, Eleanor, or I’ll make sure no hospital in this state

“Before I sign,” I said softly, “I’d like to make one phone call. Professional courtesy.” Preston rolled his eyes. “Make it quick.” I dialed. Put it on speaker. A warm voice filled the room. “Ellie! Tell me you’re finally accepting the Chair position. The announcement goes out Monday.” Preston’s coffee cup froze halfway to his lips. “Hi, Robert,” I said. “Quick question for the incoming Hospital Network CEO. The Vance Cardiac Wing my late husband endowed in 2009 — the twenty-million-dollar one that funds about forty percent of this hospital’s research grants — what were the terms again? I’ve forgotten.” Robert chuckled. “Terminates immediately if you’re ever removed from staff without cause. Funds revert to Johns Hopkins. Why, sweetheart, is someone bothering you?” I looked at Preston. His face had gone the exact shade of the boardroom drapes — bone white. “Just a misunderstanding,” I said. “I’ll call you back.” I hung up. Slid the resignation letter back across the table. “You wrote my name wrong, Preston. It’s Dr. Vance-Hollis. As in, Hollis Memorial Wing. As in, the building you’re sitting in.” The Chairman of the Board cleared his throat. “Preston. A word. Outside. Now.” Preston stood up so fast his chair tipped. He didn’t make it to the door before the Chairman added, “Actually, leave your badge.” I rose, smoothed my scrubs, and walked to the window. Down in the courtyard, a helicopter was landing — incoming trauma, a kid, probably. My pager buzzed. I was already moving. “Gentlemen,” I said over my shoulder, “I have a heart to fix. We’ll discuss the new Chief of Staff search at four.” The boardroom door swung shut behind me. For the first time in twenty-two years, I heard applause through the wood.