Page 9 of Under Southern Stars
Suddenly, the station PA comes to life with what sounds like a basketball buzzer, just as our radios crackle to life. “Chest pain, 57-year-old male, 3616 Michigan Avenue, cross street Maple, Medic 402 respond.”
I key my radio with deliberate professionalism. “Medic 402, responding.”
The timing is perfect—it gives us an escape route from the ongoing harassment. But as Rodriguez and I head for the rig, a chorus of voices follows us: “Tell Sophia we say hiiiiii!” “Ask her if she has any single friends!”
I wave them off without turning around, but he is grinning now. Rodriguez climbs into the driver’s seat, still chuckling.
“You know this is never going away, right?” Rodriguez says as they pull out of the bay. “Twenty years from now, they’ll still be calling you Romeo.”
“Could be worse,” I say, settling back in his seat. “Could be ‘McKenzie’s girlfriend is on the radio.’”
“Oh, that’s definitely sticking too.”
As Rodriguez hits the lights and sirens, I find myself wondering if Sophia finds the station’s reception party as mortifying as I do, or if maybe—just maybe—she is a little amused by it all.
Rodriguez glances over at his partner’s thoughtful expression. “You’re thinking about her, aren’t you?”
“Just wondering what she’d think about all that,” I admit, nodding in the general direction of the station.
“Oh, you’ll find out. I guarantee she’ll hear about it. Trust me. Hospital gossip travels faster than light.” Rodriguez grins. “Question is, what are you gonna do about it?”
I consider this seriously as we weave through traffic, sirens wailing. What am I going to do about it?
Maybe it is time to stop pretending this is just casual radio banter.
“We’ll see,” I say finally.
“That’s what I thought,” Rodriguez says, satisfaction clear in his voice.
CHAPTER FIVE
SOPHIA
“Mom, you’re burning the garlic.”
Madison’s voice cuts through my distraction, and I quickly turn down the heat under the pan, stirring the suddenly too-brown bits with more force than necessary.
“It’s caramelized,” I say defensively, though we both know better.
“Uh-huh.” Madison looks up from her chemistry homework spread across the kitchen counter. “That’s what we’re calling it?”
I shoot her a look, but she is already back to balancing equations, her pencil tapping against her lip in concentration. The kitchen fills with the smell of garlic that has definitely crossed the line from golden to bitter.
“How is school?” I ask, salvaging what I can of the pasta sauce.
“Fine. Mrs. Patterson assigns our final projects for AP Bio. I’m thinking about doing something on cardiac electrophysiology.” She glances up hopefully. “Maybe you could help? You know, professional insight?”
“Of course.” I smile, genuinely pleased. Madison has been showing more interest in medicine lately, asking thoughtfulquestions about my work instead of just tolerating my ER stories. “What’s your angle?”
“Maybe something about how electrical conduction abnormalities can mimic other conditions? Like, how you can’t always trust what the monitor shows you?”
I pause in my stirring. That is remarkably sophisticated thinking for a fifteen-year-old. “That’s…actually brilliant. Very advanced.”
“I have a good teacher,” she says with a grin, then returns to her homework.
As I add tomatoes to the pan, I find myself humming softly—nothing specific, just a tune that has been stuck in my head for days. The kitchen feels warm and comfortable, the kind of domestic peace I’ve been craving for years.
“Okay, what’s up with you?” Madison asks suddenly.
