Page 3 of Outbreak Protocol
"Am I going to die?" Her voice trembles.
I lean closer. "Not if I have anything to say about it. My mother had the same procedure last year. She's back to tending her garden and complaining about my father's snoring."
A ghost of a smile crosses her lips as the cardiology team arrives.
"STEMI, anterior wall, pain began forty minutes ago. She's prepped and ready," I report, helping transfer her to their gurney.
"Thanks, Felix," Dr. Reiner says. "Good catch."
I nod and move immediately to the next cubicle, where a six-year-old boy sits clutching a teddy bear, tears streaming down his flushed cheeks.
"Hey there, buddy." I crouch to his eye level. "I'm Felix. What's your bear's name?"
"Bruno," he whispers, clutching the stuffed animal tighter.
"Is Bruno feeling sick too?" I ask, pulling out my stethoscope.
The boy nods solemnly.
"Well, I better examine both of you then." I place the stethoscope on the bear's chest first. "Hmm, Bruno's heart sounds perfect. Very strong." I wink at the mother, who watches with grateful exhaustion. "Now your turn."
As I examine the boy—temperature 39.5°C, throat inflamed, no respiratory distress—I chat with him about Bruno's adventures. By the time I've finished my exam, he's stopped crying.
"Good news. You have a nasty throat infection, but we can fix that." I write a prescription for antibiotics. "And Bruno is completely healthy. He's doing a great job taking care of you."
The mother mouths "thank you" as I move to the nextpatient—a sullen teenager with a suspicious fracture pattern on his wrist x-ray.
"The chart says you fell off your skateboard," I say, studying the films.
"Yeah." He avoids eye contact.
I note the defensive posture, the faded bruises at different healing stages. "Interesting. This break doesn't typically happen from a fall. It's more consistent with someone twisting your arm."
His eyes dart to the door.
"Your father waiting outside?"
A barely perceptible nod.
"I need to set this properly." I pull the privacy curtain closed. "While I work, maybe you can tell me how this really happened."
Twenty minutes and one social services consult later, I'm finally grabbing a sip of water when Anna appears beside me, her scrubs as rumpled as mine.
"Three minutes of peace," she announces, leaning against the counter. "New record for today."
"I was hoping for four." I drain the water cup. "How's bed seven doing?"
"The appendicitis? Surgery just took him up." She checks her watch. "Emma's school play is tonight. If this shift ever ends, I might actually make it."
"You will. I'll cover if things run late."
Anna smiles, the exhaustion momentarily lifting from her face. "You're a good man, Felix Müller. Terrible taste in football teams, but a good man."
"Bayern Munich is objectively superior, and someday you'll admit it." This is our ritual, this banter that makes fourteen-hour shifts bearable.
"Never." She glances at the board. "Looks like you're up. Cubicle four. Flu-like symptoms."
I groan. "Fifth one today. Didn't anyone get their flu shot this year?"
