Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 118309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
With her curiosity as high as her manicured brow, she slides the condom over the toes that are aching and red. When it offers instant relief, she shoots her eyes to me. “You wouldn’t happen to have another condom, would you?” She gestures her hand at her right foot. “I went with this foot first because I wasn’t sure I’d get my heels back on if I were to free the beast I feel growing on the big toe on my left foot.”
I smile, loving the ease of our conversation, before opening my locker to hunt for another condom. “I should have another one here somewhere, but if I don’t, there are condom dispensers in all the washrooms in the ER.”
My rummage through my locker knocks out the credit card Maksim gifted me last week.
The still unnamed intern collects it off the floor before handing it to me.
“Thanks.” Her curiosity is expected, and so is the unease of my reply. “It’s not mine. A… friend gave it to me.”
She waits for me to return the credit card to its rightful spot on the shelf—next to my rings—before asking, “If your friend has a brother, let me know.”
I laugh like that introduction wouldn’t encourage a heap of trouble in her life, before handing her a second condom.
“Who knew something so simple could offer so much relief.” After ripping open the foil disc with her teeth, she peers up at me through a mop of curls. “Eva Mahoney.”
I accept the hand she is holding out in offering. “Nikita.” My pause to evaluate which surname I should use makes it seem like I am impersonating James Bond. “Nikita Hoffman.”
Eva’s dark brow shoots up high. “Hoffman?”
Either my stumble confused her or she paid more attention to the name on the credit card than she made out. It isn’t in my maiden name. “It’s a long story, and I’m already ten minutes into my miniscule thirty-minute break.”
She smiles like she knows I’d rather cut off my arm with a blunt object than have the discussion she is trying to open. “Perhaps another time? I could bring whiskey-laced coffee. I’ve heard that’s a hit with some medical officers around here.”
My smile is genuine for the first time today. “It is, and honestly, I’m not sure I blame them anymore.”
“It will be worth it… eventually,” she murmurs again.
“It will,” I agree.
I farewell her with a wave before exiting the locker room with more spring in my step than I entered it. Our conversation was awkward in places, but it was more enriched than any I’ve had the prior five days.
I’m still viewed as a leech by my colleagues, and Zoya’s assurance that I am not isn’t as well received over FaceTime.
I’m meant to be going to the cafeteria to rehydrate my veins with caffeine, but raised voices in the ER alter the direction of my steps.
Angry patients are nothing new in the emergency department, but this is the first time they’ve centered around a child.
“Mr. Petrovitch?” I ask when the side profile of the man shouting at the ward clerk to help his daughter registers as familiar.
My heart launches into my throat when Lev spins to face me. Yulia is cradled into his chest. Her cheeks are bright red, and her breathing is tachycardia. She looks seconds from collapse.
After checking her pulse and the reflexes of her pupils, I lock my eyes with the clerk so she can see the seriousness in them when I say, “She is going into ventricular fibrillation.” When she stands there, gawping at me, my panic increases the volume of my voice. “She needs to be admitted, now!”
“She can’t be assigned a bed. Her insurance has expired, and our previous claim was denied. She will not be admitted here today.”
While Lev assures the clerk that his new medical insurance will commence next week, I snatch Yulia out of his arms, race her to the nearest gurney, and then wheel her into a cubicle with the equipment needed to assist a patient in severe cardiac distress.
“Dr. Hoffman, you can’t do that. This patient has no insurance.” As I commence placing defibrillation pads onto Yulia’s chest, the clerk says, “A free medical clinic is five miles away.”
“She won’t make it five miles. If we don’t restart her heart and achieve normal rhythm within the next few minutes, she will die.”
Dr. Eiland enters the cubicle. She is the chief medical officer of the ER department.
Eva is close on her tail.
“Stats?”
Memories flash through my head when my reply mimics one I’ve heard previously. “Her pulse is over three hundred beats a minute, and eupneic breaths are present.”
As Dr. Eiland gloves up, she asks, “Protein?”
I shake my head. “She hasn’t been tested yet.”
“Because she can’t be admitted,” the clerk interrupts. “She has no insurance, and her account is already tens of thousands of dollars in debt.”