I hate being called ma’am. I am twenty-six years old yet these interns seem to think I’m some sort of ancient, all-powerful being. “Well when you feel like pretending to be a doctor again, maybe you can move your ass. The helo’s on approach.”

I’ll give him one thing: Mikey Hoxam is a bag of nerves most of the time, or otherwise a complete goof-off, but he gets ten out of ten for enthusiasm. He’s the first out of the elevator, guiding the gurney onto the rooftop. The helicopter’s wheels are on the tarmac by the time we all reach Oliver.

“You ready?” he yells to me.

“Yes, sir!” Mikey yells right back. Oliver gives him a look that would strip paint clean off wood. The intern realizes his mistake and has the common sense to blush. I can’t help but smirk.

“Yeah, I’m ready! Let’s go!” We rush the helicopter doors. Two paramedics clamber out, carefully lifting a backboard behind them, its cargo small and fragile.

“Maisie Richards, seven years old. Hypothermic, deep laceration to right thigh. Found seizing face down in the bath. Unconscious, pulse is still tachycardic. Coded en route, shocked twice.”

“Okay, let’s get her inside!”

Oliver and the crash team hunker down underneath the whipping rotor blades of the helicopter as they take charge of the patient and rush back toward the elevator. I turn back to the paramedics who are gathering their stuff from the medevac. “Where are the parents?”

The first paramedic, a young woman with a severe expression, frown lines already developing between her eyebrows, gives me an exasperated sigh. “Who knows? Neighbor was dropping food round for the kid; let themselves in when Maisie didn’t answer. Found her in the tub.”

“What? She was on her own?”

The medic shakes her head like she can hardly believe it herself.

“Romera! Come on!” Oliver is holding the elevator door open. I run, almost missing the ride down as the doors slide closed.

*****

“She’s stable. It’s a miracle she survived.” I sign off on the paperwork that needs to be completed for Maisie. I’m furious as I stab my pen into the paper, marking that the little kid is allergic to latex, penicillin and anesthesia. She’s actually allergic to everything. She nearly died four times when we had her on the table, struggling to rescue her leg. The wound was deep. Horrible. And if Maisie’s mom or dad had been here, we would have known not to touch her with our gloves. We would have known not to give her regular anesthetic, and not to give her anti-viral penicillin after she’d been dragged back into the land of the living. As it stands I’m baffled as to how her little heart has coped with all the stress it’s been under.

Oliver watches on with a bemused expression as I slash my signature into the bottom of the chart and add it to the towering pile of clipboards for the interns to file. “I’m calling CPS,” I tell him.

“Whoa, don’t you think you ought to wait for her parents to show up before calling Child Protection Services?”

I have no words. “Did…did you just work on the same seven-year-old girl I did? Because a child, a little baby, nearly died just now. She should never have been left on her own.”

“I agree with you, don’t get me wrong. I’m just saying, you don’t know what the circumstances are yet.”

I start walking toward the residents’ locker room, Oliver following behind me. I slam through the door, tugging my scrubs off over my head as I go. Blood has soaked through them to stain the long-sleeved shirt I’m wearing underneath. Great. I open my locker, using the door to provide a little modesty as I take that off too and then slip on a clean sweater. When I turn around, Oliver is shirtless, his scrubs top hanging from where he’s tucked the removed garment into the waistband of his pants, smirking as he types something into his cell phone.

“I can’t believe you’re even smiling right now,” I grumble, pushing past him. Many a resident has been paralyzed by the sight of Oliver Massey’s washboard abs, but not me. Not since bearing witness to Zeth Mayfair’s stomach. And definitely not today. He grabs me as I try to make my escape.

“You’d smile too if you’d been invited to the intern’s party.”

“The interns are having a party?”

“Of course the interns are having a party. How many times did we get fucked up when we were in their shoes?”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, well, I do not want to spend a night drinking with those walking liabilities. And frankly I have absolutely no idea why you would, either.”

“Think about it,” he says, grinning. “How uncomfortable are they gonna be with their bosses drinking all their beer and dominating their share house. It’s gonna be classic.”

“Oh, come on!” I laugh. “Which one are you screwing, Olly?”

He looks a little stunned. “None of them!” He does a really bad job of disguising the horrified look that develops on his face. “I’m not…” He shakes his head, letting go of my arm, which allows me to realize how close he’d been standing. “Never mind, Sloane. Have a good night, huh.” He steps back, quickly snatching up a dark shirt from the bench and pulling it on over his head. Well. I somehow managed to really piss him off. Should I say something else? Apologize? Tell him I was only joking? Probably a terrible idea—just make matters worse no doubt. He’s still getting changed, back to me, as I exit the change room.