“And you were, Oliver. You were all of those things. You didn’t flinch once when they brought Alex in. You were single minded and you got the job done. You saved his life.”
My words wash over Oliver like water over rock. He doesn’t feel them, doesn’t allow them to affect him in any way. “Maybe,” he whispers, staring down at his hands. He gives me a thin, hangdog smile, kind of watery around the edges. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I did do everything right in that operating room. But fuck, Sloane. They don’t equip us to deal with this part. We’re never taught to feel like them, the people pacing the hallways like caged lions because they feel…because they feel so fucking useless.”
They really don’t teach us that. It’s not in a doctor’s nature to sit back and let time do its job, as we advise so many other people to do every day. We’re relentless in nature—or at least good doctors should be. There’s no giving up. No patience. Our lives—especially the lives of trauma surgeons—are lived in five-second bursts. So much can change in those fleeting five seconds. Lives are made and broken. Loved ones survive, and loved ones are lost. Oliver and I were trained that every single second passing by is a grain of sand trickling through our fingers, one we will never be able to snatch back, and it is our duty to make each and every one of them count. So waiting for a trauma surgeon? Waiting is an impossibility. A torturous concept that would cripple even the most pragmatic of us. Oliver must be going out of his mind.
“I need your help with something,” I tell him. This is the kindest thing I can possibly do—give him some other purpose to take his mind off his brother. “I have a situation, a tricky one, and I need your huge brain to come up with a solution for me.”
Oliver’s eyes flicker to the ceiling, and they stay there. “I’m not on shift, Sloane.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then I can’t just go interfering in your cases.” This is hospital policy—If a doctor isn’t on duty, he or she may not work on patients in any way, shape or form. They could have been drinking. They could have been doing any manner of questionable things before they walked through the entranceway of St. Peter’s of Mercy Hospital. They’re not mentally prepped to take on whatever they might be faced with, so they’re not permitted to even touch a patient. Oliver may be breaking that rule with Alex today, but he can get away with that. The chief’s given up trying to keep him away from his brother, but it will be another matter entirely if she catches him consulting on a different patient.
“You don’t need to interfere at all. You don’t even need to see the kid,” I say. “I just need some help figuring out how to keep her here.”
“The kid?”
“A little girl, suffers from severe grand mal seizures. Her older brother’s her legal guardian, and he can’t afford to keep her in for another few days.”
“Is she likely to seize again?”
Now it’s my turn to shrug. “I don’t know. There’s a risk. She’s stable for the most part.”
“Then send her home, Sloane. Let the guy minimize the costs.”
I’m surprised by this response. Oliver’s usually a proponent for as much observation as the situation can afford. “She’d be better off admitted for the next two days at least,” I point out.
An anguished look flashes across Oliver’s face. “Can we prevent her from seizing again?”
“No.”
“Can we re-admit her later if her brother’s insurance won’t cover her?”
I don’t even need to answer this one.
“Then you know what you need to do,” Oliver says flatly. “Send her home with her brother. Let her recuperate in her own bed, and give her brother some peace of fucking mind.”
Chapter Four
ZETH
We draw yet another blank at the warehouse. The calls we’ve been making for days now have all ended the same: no one knows what Lowell is up to. No one knows what her purpose is here, and no one wants to get involved, either.