Page 63 of Well That Happened

I’m not going to be him.

I can’t be.

So yeah—I’m off. I’m tired. And maybe I’ve been watching Rilee too much, wanting things I’m not supposed to want.

But I’ll be damned if I let it get me benched in my own future.

Chapter Seventeen

Rilee

The monitors scream before I reach the room.

Code blue. Room 418.

I’m already moving, hands slick in my gloves, chest tight. We’re halfway through a night shift that’s been too long already.

The second I get in the room, it’s chaos. Nurses. Crash cart. Two residents yelling orders that clash in the air.

The patient—a woman in her thirties, post-C-section—flatlines before we can stabilize.

I do chest compressions.

We pause for a pulse check. There’s nothing.

I do another round of compressions.

And another.

And she’s still gone.

The attending calls time. 3:42 a.m.

Everything goes still.

One of the nurses starts peeling off her gloves, slow and robotic. The resident nearest me leans against the wall, eyes distant.

I don’t move.

“Jameson,” Dr. Patel says, touching my shoulder gently. “You did everything right.”

I blink at her. My hands are still hovering in the air, like my brain hasn’t caught up.

“Take a minute,” she says. “Get some air.”

I nod. Step out into the hallway. The cold bites at my sweat. My scrubs are damp. My shoes are sticky. I lean against the wall and stare at the cracked tile and try—try—not to cry.

But my hands won’t stop shaking.

And my chest won’t loosen.

What am I doing here?

If I can’t handle this now, how the hell am I supposed to be a nurse for real?

I rub at my face. Breathe. Try again.

Dr. Patel finds me ten minutes later near the vending machines.

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