Page 49 of Under Southern Stars
I text back:
Me: Just cric'd someone. Today was special kind of hell. Counting minutes to NZ.
Jack: On my way with caffeine and inappropriate jokes.
Despite everything, I smile. Three weeks. Three weeks until I can breathe again, can be just Sophia instead of Charge Nurse Mitchell.
I catch Dr. Ward approvingly surveying the scene. “That was impressive,” Dr. Ward says when she sees I’ve noticed. “Lee handled that well.”
“He did,” I agree, thinking of that grey face, that trembling hand. “He really did.”
The rest of the shift blurs together—post-procedure paperwork, checking on Tasha (she’s better, Nathan’s still with her), fielding questions about the dramatic save. The ER never stops, just shifts into different gears.
By the time Jack arrives with coffee, I’m exhausted but wired, that particular post-adrenaline state unique to emergency medicine.
“Heard you had some excitement,” he says, handing me a red-eye with an extra shot.
“Acute epiglottitis.” Jack whistled appreciatively.
“Cameron Lee, of all people.” The gossip network clearly never rests. “Heard he went full action hero.”
“He did what needed doing,” I say carefully, protective of Cameron’s moment of vulnerability. “Saved a life.”
Jack studies me, reading something in my expression. “Good on him, then.”
We sit in the break room, sharing war stories and planning New Zealand. He shows me pictures of the places he wants to take us—beaches, mountains, something called a “glow worm cave” that makes Madison squeal with delight when she FaceTimes us during her lunch break.
“Mom, you look tired,” she observes with teenage bluntness.
“Rough case today, baby. But I’m good.”
“Is Jack taking care of you?”
I glance at him, see the genuine concern in those blue eyes. “Yeah. He is.”
After we hang up, Jack pulls me closer. “Three weeks,taku ipo. Then you get a proper break.”
“Three weeks,” I agree, letting myself lean into his warmth.
As I gather my things, I spot Cameron in the hallway. He’s back to his usual self—confident stride, perfect hair—but there’s something different. Sharper, maybe. More performative.
“Good work today,” I call out.
