Page 47 of Under Southern Stars
“Fast track. And before you ask, yes, she’s behaving. Mostly.” Maria pauses. “Though she did ask if ‘getting railed by a hot paramedic’ improves your complexion because, and I quote, ‘Sophia’s practically glowing.’”
My face heats. “She did not—”
“Bay 3 needs orders,” Maria says innocently, floating away before I can respond.
The afternoon flows in its usual rhythm—controlled chaos punctuated by moments of pure adrenaline. Nathan’s running triage with his typical quiet efficiency, Melissa’s handling a complex cardiac case, and Cameron Lee is…being Cameron.
“Sophia.” He materializes beside me at the nurses’ station, leaning against the counter in what he probably thinks is a casual pose. “Heard you’re heading to New Zealand.”
“News travels fast.”
“With the paramedic.” His tone suggests I’ve announced plans to join a cult. “Interesting choice.”
“Was there something medical you needed, Dr. Lee?”
“Just concerned about a colleague.” He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “You know, if you wanted someone more…established, the offer still stands.”
“What offer would that be?”
“Dinner. Somewhere that doesn’t serve its wine from boxes.” He winks. “I know a place that has an excellent New Zealand collection, actually. The McKenzie Estate makes a particularly nice—”
I almost laugh. “I’ve actually had that. It’s quite good.” The memory of dinner with Jack warms me for a moment.
“Oh?” His eyebrows raise. “Their 2019 Pinot is exceptional. Three hundred a bottle, but worth it for the right company.”
My stomach drops.Three hundred dollars!? Jack spent three hundred dollars on wine for our first date?
“That’s…” I can’t finish the sentence. That’s almost a car payment. That’s more than some people’s weekly grocery budget. That’s what a paramedic—someone who probably makes less than I do—spent on one bottle of wine to impress me.
Cameron misreads my shock. “I know, pricey. But some things are worth the investment.” He leans closer. “The offer stands, Sophia. Whenever you’re ready for something more…substantial.”
I barely hear him leave. Three hundred dollars. I feel simultaneously touched and furious. How could he spend that much? Why would he spend that much? And why do I feel so guilty about it now?
“Sophia!” Tasha’s voice, usually edged with boredom or complaint, crackled with genuine alarm over the radio. “I need you in Fast Track 3.Now.”
I was halfway there before she finished. Tasha didn’t panic easily unless it was about her break being delayed. I push through the curtain to find her standing beside a young man—late teens, maybe early twenties—who was bolt upright on the stretcher, leaning forward, his eyes wide with a terror I recognized instantly. Stridor. That high-pitched, desperate sound of an airway closing. He was drooling, unable to swallow, his color a dusky gray.
“Came in for a sore throat about twenty minutes ago,” Tasha said, her voice tight but controlled. “Said it started this morning, got rapidly worse. Temp’s 102. Looked like bad strep, but then this.” She gestured to the patient’s tripoding posture. “It was so fast.”
My mind races. Epiglottitis. Rare in adults and older teens since the HiB vaccine, but the classic signs were all there—the tripod, the drool, the stridor, the toxic appearance. This wasn’t just a sore throat; this was an airway about to slam shut.
“Get him to Trauma One!” I barked, my charge nurse voice kicking in, overriding the knot of ice in my own stomach. “Nate, I need you! Maria, call Anesthesia and ENT! Page them overhead if you have to. Someone grab the difficult airway cart and the cric kit!”
“On it!” Nathan appeared from nowhere, already in motion. That’s what I love about him—no questions, just action.
We moved as a unit—me, Tasha, Nathan, and two techs—wheeling the patient down the hall while I called out orders.
“Get respiratory here now! Set up for emergency cric! Where’s anesthesia?”
“Dr. Singh is coming,” someone called back.
“And ENT?”
“Dr. Williams is in surgery. Twenty minutes minimum.”
“We don’t have twenty minutes,” I mutter, watching the patient’s oxygen saturation plummet. “We’ve got seconds.”
Trauma One erupted into controlled chaos as we transferred the patient to the resuscitation bed. Dr. Singh, our on-call anesthesiologist, arrives, takes one look, and starts preppingfor intubation. “Can’t see a damn thing,” he muttered after his first attempt, the laryngoscope blade useless against the massive swelling. “Cords are buried. Someone hand me the Glidescope.”
