Page 2 of Baby for Dr. Damaged

“It’s a good word for it,” I tell her. “You’re a driven person.”

“I’m just trying to make a difference,” Amanda says. “And you can’t do that if you aren’t aware of the structure that you’re working in.”

We finish our rounds without any problems, and I lead the way into the doctors' lounge.

It’s a large room, the first thing you see when you walk in is an enormous smart TV mounted to the far wall. There's a couch that sits in the center of the room facing the TV. The fridge and kitchenette are in the left corner behind the couch. A long wooden table completes the kitchenette area and adds plenty of space to sit and eat or get paperwork done. Off to the right of the airy room, there are more places to rest with lounge chairs dotted along the wall, each accompanied by an ottoman where a doctor can put up their tired feet.

“This room will become your second-best friend,” I tell her. “Unless Dr. Haffersire is in here watching wrestling. Then it’s going to be the worst place for relaxation in the state of Washington.”

Amanda laughs. “Second best friend, huh? And what’s going to be the first?”

I crook a finger at her. “This way.”

Not too far away from the doctors' lounge is one of the small rooms that the doctors are allowed to use. I push open the door with one hand, letting it swing inwards to reveal the small, metal frame bunk bed that has been shoved into the otherwise completely empty, completely dark, windowless room.

“This is the sleeping bay,” I explain. “And the moment that you start having to pull night shifts and doubles, you’re going to come to love her.”

There are clean sheets sitting in a plastic basket on the floor, and a place for the dirty ones. I go on to explain that the cleaning crew will keep everything clean and stocked.

Amanda nods, listening just as closely to me now as she has through the whole day. “Noted.”

We step outside again and a little way down the hall, in case someone wants to come by and use the beds. “Are there a lot of doubles in my future?”

“You won’t be able to name a single hospital in the state that isn’t understaffed, underfunded, and running on an absolutely exhausted skeleton crew. And Mercy General is no different,” I answer.

“You’re a good friend, and I’m not going to lie to you. Working here isn’t easy.”

“I knew it wouldn’t be.”

“You don’t have a good picture of it. Whatever you’re imagining, it’s not rough enough. There are call-offs. There are sudden quits. Sometimes, we aren’t able to go home for two days at a time.” That is one of the biggest problems with this career.

People like to advocate for a nine-to-five, eight-hour workday—and it’s well deserved. But places like the hospital are never factored into that. Twelve-hour shifts are the norm here, and it’s not uncommon to pull eighteen-hour shifts too.

I have, on occasion, worked two straight days without getting to go home.

“I’m not exaggerating when I say that you’re going to find yourself very well acquainted with these two rooms,” I tell her, gesturing back to the lounge and the sleeping bay. “The fact that you’re only a resident isn’t going to change that. I’ll do what I can to make sure that you’re prepared for everything asked of you and ensure that there are no problems with the other staff members, but only having a strong sense of fortitude yourself will truly make a difference.”

“I’m not going to back down and quit just because the hours are long,” Amanda says. “I’ve put too much time and effort into getting here. There’s nothing that’s going to change my mind.”

“That’s good to hear.” I didn’t think that it would, but every doctor still has the standard warning that they give new residents.

I know that Amanda is trying to find a cure for her brother; she’s worked her whole life toward becoming a doctor, so that she can do something to help Harris.

Hard work and grief are two things that she is already very much familiar with.

All the same, I need to make sure that I’m not treating her differently, just because she’s the daughter of one of my good friends. It would be unprofessional of me, and it would be a disservice to her.

Amanda didn’t put herself through med school and come all this way just to be coddled and tiptoed around by someone or given an easier path than others because of her father’s name.

No, she’s going to get the same treatment and work that everyone else I’ve had shadow me gets.

Whether she flashes me more of those beautiful smiles of hers or not.

And itisbeautiful—her pink-tinted lips pull back and her dark blue eyes light up. She leans forward, so close I can feel her breath on my face, one hand settling on my chest.

Her scent is sweet, something soft. Vanilla? “Is it? Because this means you’re going to have to come over for dinner more often,” she says, her breath warm on my skin.

“I’m not going to complain about your mother’s cooking,” I tell her, with a laugh.To her face, at least.

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