Page 62 of Under Southern Stars
Madison: K! Can't wait! Mom's humming while doing paperwork. She NEVER hums. You make her happy!!!
Christ. The weight of what I’m risking sits heavier with each passing day. I think of Vanessa’s cold calculation, the way she’d mapped out exactly how to extract maximum wealth from my family, and contrast it with Sophia’s fierce independence, her dedication to a job that exhausts her but fulfills her.
No. Sophia is nothing like Vanessa. She deserves the truth.
I drive to meet Sophia, already knowing today won’t be the day I tell her either. Tomorrow, maybe.
Or the next day.
Nine days to figure out how to say: “Remember that $300 I spent on wine? Well, about that…”
Nine days until she sees the estate and realizes just how much I’ve been hiding.
Nine days of being just Jack, before I have to be Jackson Charles McKenzie.
The countdown feels like a ticking bomb, and I’m the one who set the timer.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
SOPHIA
My radio crackles to life: “Sophia, can you come to triage? It’s Nate.”
I frown. Nathan Crawford doesn’t call for backup unless it’s serious, and he’d normally specify if it was a medical emergency. Must be an irate patient or family member—probably someone demanding to know why their stubbed toe isn’t getting priority over the cardiac arrest.
“On my way,” I respond, setting down the chart I was reviewing and heading toward the triage area.
What I find isn’t an angry patient, but a petite woman in a tailored pantsuit standing beside Nate’s desk. She’s carrying a leather portfolio and wearing the kind of smile that screams “corporate.”
“Sophia,” Nate says, his expression professionally neutral but his eyes sending me a clear SOS. “This is Karen Scharenbroch from Workflow Management. She’d like to speak with me about some metrics.”
“In the middle of triage?” I don’t hide my incredulity.
“I understand you’re busy,” Karen says, not sounding like she understands at all, “but this will only take five minutes. It’s about the department’s patient flow inefficiencies.”
I glance at the waiting room—nine patients, none looking immediately critical, and as I recall, we only had one ambulance inbound. Not our worst day by a long shot.
“Five minutes,” I say firmly. I think for a moment, and then toggle my radio. “Tasha! I need you in triage.”
Tasha shows up in triage thirty seconds later, surprised. “Yes?”
“Could you cover Nate in triage so he can have a chat with our, ahem…‘efficiency expert’?”
Tasha doesn’t even attempt to hide her surprise. “Me? In triage?”
“Just for five minutes.” I give her a pointed look. “You’ve been saying you want more responsibility.”
She approaches warily. “Sure, but—”
“If anything looks critical, come grab me immediately,” Nate tells her quietly. “But don’t worry. You’ve got this.”
Tasha nods, taking Nate’s seat with a mix of determination and trepidation. It’s a vote of confidence she clearly wasn’t expecting, and despite her usual attitude, I can see she’s trying not to look pleased.
