BEAUMONT HOSPITAL
ROYAL OAK, MICHIGAN
JUNE 19, 2024
Dr. McCall sat alone in the dimly lit staff changing room of Beaumont Hospital, the soft buzz of overhead fluorescents humming above her. She sighed deeply as she pulled on her scrubs, the fabric cool and familiar against her skin. But nothing about today felt familiar, not with the weight she carried inside her.
She'd been hiding something from her best friend, more like her sister, for days now. And the guilt was rotting her from the inside out. She'd never kept anything from her best friend before.
The door burst open with a bang.
"Dr. McCall," Nurse Ozone gasped, breathless. "There's been a plane crash just a few miles out. Paramedics are en route. We need the trauma team ready—now!"
Her heart slammed in her chest. "How many survivors?"
"Two. The rest..." Ozone's voice caught. "They didn't make it."
Without another word, Dr. McCall ripped open the nearest gown package and pulled the fluid-impervious fabric over her scrubs. She snapped on her gloves, grabbed a mask, and jogged toward the trauma bay where the team was assembling.
While they waited for the ambulance, they reviewed radio updates from the paramedics. The information was grim.
The first survivor: Dr. Dwight Weston. He'd jumped from the aircraft just moments before impact. His legs were broken in four places. The team suspected lumbar spine compression fractures and extensive trauma to both legs... likely shattered heels, torn ligaments, maybe worse. The impact was on his left side, raising red flags for potential damage to his chest and internal organs.
The second patient's name made her go cold.
Dr. Joseph Edwards.
Her breath caught in her throat. No. Not Joseph.
They'd gone through Harvard together. Late-night study sessions. Shared jokes in the back of anatomy lectures. He was brilliant, kind, and quiet. And now he was clinging to life.
They split the trauma team into two units. Dr. McCall volunteered for Joseph.
The sirens echoed through the ER like a scream. When the ambulance pulled up, everything moved in a blur.
******
9 HOURS LATER
The emergency room had quieted, but inside Dr. McCall, the storm still raged.
She stared down at the chart in her hands, fingers trembling. Her eyes landed on the bottom of the page, the part where her signature was needed.
Joseph Edwards. Dead at twenty-eight.
She had done everything she could. Her team had fought for him with everything they had. But it hadn't been enough. The moment he was wheeled in, she knew.
His skull was fractured. Jaw shattered. Hip dislocated. His spine—damaged from T4 to T12. One eardrum gone. His abdomen had been torn open, the internal bleeding too rapid. Septic shock followed, and his heart gave out soon after.
She blinked hard, trying to hold it together.
He had so much more living to do.
Her pen scraped across the paper with a shaky finality. She handed the chart to the night nurse without a word and walked away.
She wandered to the cafeteria. Her body didn't want food, but her training kicked in, doctors couldn't afford to run on fumes. Still, each step felt like she was dragging grief behind her.
At the cafeteria doors, she ran into Dr. Tashell Stevens, her best friend and her anchor.
"Sasha," Tashell greeted gently, reading the exhaustion in her friend's eyes. "I heard. I'm sorry."
Sasha nodded. "Do you remember Joseph Edwards from college?"
"Yeah... baby-face Eddie. Why?"
Sasha exhaled slowly. "He was my patient."
"What?" Tashell's eyes widened. "No way. Are you serious?"
"I wish I wasn't. It was... horrible."
Tashell placed a hand on her friend's back as they entered the lunchroom. "I'm so sorry."
They grabbed their trays and made their way to the quietest table in the corner. The same one they always chose. Their one unspoken rule during meals? No medicine talk. No blood, no death, no stress. Just food, and a moment to breathe.
But today, the silence between them was heavier than usual.
"Hey," Sasha said, eyeing her friend. "When's the last time you slept?"
Tashell hesitated, then shrugged as she wiped the corner of her mouth with a napkin. "It's been... a while."
"Tash, if the nightmares are back, you know you can come to me."
"It was only once. A few nights ago. Nothing to worry about."
Sasha frowned. She didn't push, even though she knew Tashell was lying.
"I'm serious. Don't carry that alone."
"I'm fine," Tashell insisted, brushing it off. "Besides, I've got my hands full."
"With the brain tumor girl?" Sasha asked.
"Yeah. Amanda. The tumor's growing across both hemispheres now. Her seizures are worse. I figured out how to operate—turns out it wasn't the probe angle, but the patient's head position. I know I can remove it."
"That's incredible," Sasha breathed.
"Except her parents won't consent to the surgery," Tashell muttered, rubbing her temples. "I've been trying to convince them. They're terrified. And she's running out of time."
"They'll come around," Sasha said gently. "They have to."
"I hope it's soon," Tashell murmured. "Because Amanda doesn't have much longer."
The silence stretched again.
Dr. Fletcher suddenly approached their table with a bright smile. "Dr. McCall."
Sasha swallowed her bite and nodded. "Dr. Fletcher."
Tashell arched a brow. "Am I invisible?"
Fletcher chuckled. "Sorry, Dr. Stevens. I just have some hospital business for Dr. McCall."
"Sure," Tashell said dryly, stabbing her salad.
"Give me a few minutes. I'll catch up," Sasha said politely.
Fletcher nodded and walked away with his usual swagger.
Tashell leaned in, smirking. "He's the one who'll be behind you in a few minutes."
Sasha rolled her eyes. "Don't start."
"Come on. When are you going to stop sleeping with that douche?"
"Don't say that."
"Which part? Calling him a douche or asking when you're going to stop screwing him?"
"Tash," Sasha warned, but a smile tugged at her lips. "You know what I went through with Zane," she added quietly. "I'm not ready to commit again. Andrew and I have an understanding."
"Oh, we're calling him Andrew now?" Tashell teased.
"Shut up," Sasha laughed. "He treats me with respect. And you know what they say—to get over one guy..."
"You need to get under another," Tashell finished, shaking her head. "Sasha, girl."
Sasha popped a grape into her mouth and spun it on her tongue. "Exactly."
"Well, if supply closet quickies count as respect, then all power to you," Tashell smirked.
"Whatever, Miss I'm-a-27-year-old-virgin," Sasha fired back, making Tashell visibly flinch.
After the night she'd had, humor was a necessary lifeline.
"I need a little release," Sasha muttered, checking her watch.
"Go. Your one o'clock is waiting," Tashell teased.
Sasha made a face and stood up. But before she could take a step, her pager went off. A shrill, vibrating buzz.
She glanced at it and froze.
"What is it?" Tashell asked.
Sasha's brow furrowed. "It's a 911 page."
"From where?"
She looked up, alarmed. "The morgue."
"The morgue?"
"Yeah." Sasha was already walking. "I gotta go. I'll see you later."
Tashell watched her disappear through the cafeteria doors, a strange chill crawling up her spine.