Page 5 of Under Southern Stars
She turns back to us. “Alright, bring Mr. Henderson to triage bay three.” Her blue eyes linger on me for a fraction of a second. “Thanks again, Medic 405.”
“Anytime, Miss Mitchell.” I let warmth creep into my tone, acknowledging the name change with slight emphasis. “Happy to help.Chur.”
Her eyes flicker at the Kiwi slang—“chur” being our catch-all expression of thanks, agreement, or general goodwill. A recognition that I’ve noticed the name change? Then she’s turning away, directing a passing nurse, all business again.
Back in the rig, Baz lets out a low whistle. “Man, Mitchell doesn’t mess around, does she? And she totally shut down Dr. Pretty Boy. Heard he’ll try to charm anything in scrubs now that he’s finally got that attending money rolling in.”
“She knows her stuff,” I agree, but I’m thinking about those blue eyes, the new weight in them.
“Too bad we don’t hit Metro more,” Baz stretches as he drives. “All the crazy stuff happens there or downtown at University. Station 5’s getting to be a real snooze-fest, you know? Not enough action.”
He’s right. Station 5 is relatively cushy—routine transports, nursing home calls. Meanwhile, the crews from Station 2—like Medic 402—they’re here constantly. Real emergencies, actual challenges.
The kind of runs where you’d see Mitchell regularly. See her enough to maybe understand what changed. What put that armor up.
“Yeah,” I say, mostly to myself. “Might be time for a bit of a change.”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing, mate. Just thinking.”
As we pull away, I catch a glimpse of her through the glass doors. Same competent charge nurse, handling everything thrown at her. But now I’m noticing something else—a weariness, maybe, or something heavier she’s carrying that I hadn’t seen before.
Sophia Mitchell. Brilliant blue eyes, runs a tight ship, and definitely not from Australia. All great attributes.
Might be worth taking a tiki-tour through those transfer policies after all. Station 2 runs to Metro daily.
For professional development, obviously. Wouldn’t want to get too bored or out of practice.
Nothing to do with wanting to understand what put that weight on her shoulders.
Nothing at all.
CHAPTER THREE
SOPHIA
A few weeks had somehow evaporated since the morning of the I-95 pile-up. That MVA had been the chaotic mess everyone predicted, a blur of critical patients, barking doctors, and the metallic tang of blood that never quite left your nostrils until your shift ended.
We’d saved some, lost some. The usual brutal ER math. Life, as it always did in the trenches of Metro General, had rolled on. I’d handled it. Madison had started soccer practice, Troy was still being Troy via passive-aggressive co-parenting texts, and I was still mainlining caffeine like it was my lifeblood.
I’d heard Jack McKenzie’s voice—Medic 405, Station 5—a handful of times on the radio since our brief in-person encounter when he’d brought in Mr. Henderson. The usual professional reports, always with that warm cadence that snagged my attention every time, sometimes a hint of the easy banter we’d had before.
No significant follow-up, though. Just another competent paramedic in a city full of them.
Right.
The ER is currently simmering at a low boil. Not dead quiet (neversay the Q-word) but manageable. I am reviewing staffing for the next shift change when Maria, our unflappableunit secretary who has the uncanny ability to simultaneously answer three phones and know everyone’s coffee order, glances up. “Heads up, Sophia, sounds like 402’s got one for us. Might be interesting.”
Medic 402. One of the busiest units, straight out of the city’s roughest district. They usually patched criticals straight through on the hospital phone line; their primary response area actually had decent cell coverage, unlike some of the outlying districts. Better for detailed reports, less chance of radio interference.
So when the main radio channel crackles, it catches my attention. “Metro General, Medic 402 with a priority one patient, ETA five minutes. Adult male, approximately forties, found down, unresponsive by PD. Bystanders report PD administered Narcan without effect. On our arrival, patient remained unresponsive, GCS 3. Finger stick blood glucose was 18. IV established, D50 administered. Patient is now awake, alert, and conversing. Vitals stable.”
Hypoglycemia masquerading as an OD. Classic. At least this crew had a glucometer and knew how to use it. My hand reaches for my own radio mic, ready to acknowledge.
“…McKenzie reporting.”
My hand freezes.McKenzie? On 402?My brain does a quick, stuttering reboot. Medic 402 is a meat grinder, a burn-out assignment for even seasoned medics. Why in God’s name would a Station 5, “Cushy Suburbs” medic be onthatrig? Is he just covering a shift?
