Then the ballroom went silent. Senator Halloway, the guest of honor, clutched his chest and dropped between two tables. His wife screamed. Dr. Preston froze, champagne still in his hand, his face draining of color. Two other doctors backed away, whispering about liability, about waiting for paramedics. I dropped the tray. Twelve seconds, that is how long a brain survives without oxygen before damage begins, and I was already moving. I slid across the marble floor on my knees, tore open his collar, and started compressions. Airway. Pulse thready. I called for the AED mounted by the coat check, and a busboy sprinted to bring it. I shocked him once. Nothing. Adjusted the pads, shocked again. His chest lifted. His eyes fluttered open. The room exhaled as one. That was when the double doors opened and three men in dark suits walked in, followed by the hospital’s chairman, Dr. Whitaker himself. He crossed the floor, knelt beside me, and took my hand. Commander Reyes, he said, loud enough for every guest to hear, thank God you were here tonight. Preston’s glass slipped from his fingers. Commander. Commander of what. Whitaker straightened and faced the room. This is Lieutenant Commander Sarah Reyes, decorated Navy trauma surgeon, two tours in combat field hospitals, and the physician I personally recruited last month to lead our new emergency trauma division. She has been observing our staff undercover for six weeks. My father, the old clinic doctor everyone had pitied, had trained me before the Navy did. I stood up slowly, senator breathing steady at my feet, and met Preston’s eyes across the room. He did not look away first. I did. I had a hospital to run in the morning, and a little boy upstairs who was still waiting for his story.
I poured myself a cup of coffee, slow and deliberate, while Brielle’s friends filmed. ‘Sweetheart,’ I said, ‘before you redecorate, you should meet someone.’ The […]
