The patient was Mr. Hollis, seventy-two, post-op valve replacement, and his rhythm had just collapsed into V-fib. Preston finally turned, saw the flatline, and froze. Actually froze. Hands hovering, eyes glassy, that specific paralysis they warn you about in residency. The intern behind him whispered, Doctor? Preston didn’t move. So I did. I called the code, cracked the crash cart, charged to two hundred, cleared the bed, and shocked him. Nothing. Epi, compressions, charge again. On the third shock Mr. Hollis’s rhythm snapped back into sinus and the room exhaled like one lung. Preston finally found his voice. He grabbed the PA mic at the nurses’ station and screamed, This nurse is FIRED, effective immediately, for practicing medicine without authorization. The whole floor went silent. That’s when the elevator dinged. Out stepped Dr. Roman Isaacs, Chief of Surgery, flanked by two board members and a Navy officer in dress whites. The officer looked at me, straightened, and saluted. Commander Cole. Roman turned to Preston, calm as ice. Commander Maren Cole. Fifteen years Navy trauma surgery. Two tours, Kandahar and Landstuhl. She’s here on a civilian teaching contract because I begged her. She was evaluating you tonight. Preston’s mouth opened. Closed. Roman took the mic gently from his hand. Dr. Vale, effective immediately, you are suspended pending review. Please collect your things. The interns stared at me like I’d grown wings. I just picked up my clipboard, walked past Preston, and said quietly, I’ll get that coffee now. Decaf, right? You look like you need to sit down.
