Page 1 of Dr. Roz Harrington
PROLOGUE
The scene is a nightmare brought to life. Twisted metal and shattered concrete lie in massive heaps, dust thickening the air and choking the sunlight. The building that once stood tall now looks like a war zone, the aftermath of an unexpected disaster. Sirens wail, echoing through the maze of rubble, while firefighters and paramedics scramble to save lives. Samantha “Sam” Quinn stands at the center of it all, a pillar of control amid the chaos.
Her voice is calm but firm. “Get those supports in place! We need stability before we move any deeper,” she orders, sweat dripping down her temple despite the cold weight of her helmet. Her strong, muscular frame moves with practiced efficiency, broad shoulders shifting as she hauls a metal beam out of the way. Years of firefighting have made her body powerful, built for the job, and her sharp blue eyes miss nothing, not even through the dust and chaos.
“Captain Quinn!” one of her team members shouts, urgency thick in his voice. “We found someone. Young woman, pinned under debris. She’s alive, but barely.”
Sam’s chest tightens, but her focus sharpens. “Lead the way,” she orders, following quickly.
They reach the victim, a woman in her early twenties, pinned beneath a jagged slab of concrete and a fallen beam. Blood streaks her face, and her breaths are shallow, her wide, fearful eyes locking onto Sam’s.
Sam crouches beside her, her voice soft but steady. “Hey there. I’m Sam. What’s your name?”
The woman’s lips tremble, her voice barely above a whisper. “Lila.”
“Lila,” Sam repeats, a gentle reassurance in her tone. “We’re going to get you out of here, okay? I promise.”
Lila blinks back tears, wincing with every shallow breath. “It hurts,” she murmurs.
“I know it does,” Sam says, leaning closer. “But you’re tough. You’ve made it this far. We just need you to hang on a little longer.”
As her team works to secure the debris, Sam stays by Lila’s side, brushing a comforting hand over her dusty hair. “What were you doing here, Lila?” she asks, trying to keep her talking, to distract her from the pain.
Lila’s gaze shifts, her voice faltering. “I… I was looking for an apartment. Wanted to move closer to my art school. The brochure said… good view.”
Sam’s lips curve into a soft, encouraging smile. “An artist, huh? What do you make?”
“I draw people. Portraits mostly,” Lila whispers. “I like finding…stories in faces.”
Sam’s throat tightens at the quiet determination in Lila’s voice. “You’re going to have a lot more stories to draw, Lila. You hear me? We’re going to get you out of here, and one day, I’ll be sitting for a portrait.”
Lila lets out a weak laugh that turns into a cough, her face pale. “Deal.”
“Hold on to that,” Sam says firmly. “And to me. I’m not letting you go.”
“Thank you,” she mouths, her strength fading.
Sam swallows hard, nodding as her heart clenches. “We’ve got you,” she whispers, more to herself than anyone else.
The woman’s eyes flutter, a tear slipping down her dusty cheek. Sam feels a surge of determination. “Okay, listen up!” she shouts, turning to her crew. “I want supports on both sides before we lift. No sudden movements. We do this right or we don’t do it at all.”
As her team scrambles to follow her orders, Sam keeps her eyes on the woman. “Stay with me,” she murmurs, offering comfort the only way she knows how. “I need you to keep fighting, okay? We’re getting you out of here.”
The tension is unbearable, each second feeling like an eternity as they carefully extract the woman from the wreckage. The moment she’s free, the paramedics rush her toward the waiting ambulance. Sam follows, every muscle in her body tight with worry. She’s seen enough trauma to know when it’s bad, but something about this young woman’s fragility cuts deeper than usual.
The ambulance races off, and Sam, still covered in dust and sweat, pulls off her helmet and wipes a streak of grime from her cheek. She climbs into her truck, needing to be there for the next stage. The young woman’s fate is now in the hands of the doctors at Harrington Memorial Hospital, and Sam isn’t the type to let go, not until she knows.
At the ER, the scene is one of organized chaos. Sam barely has time to catch her breath before she sees her: Dr. Rosalind Harrington. The neurosurgeon strides into the department with an air of authority, a striking presence with her tall, lean frameand that wild, choppy pink hair. The bright color stands out against her scrubs, a rebellious contrast to the seriousness of her role. Roz’s intense green eyes sweep over the patient, and in a heartbeat, she’s issuing orders, her voice calm but full of command.
“Prep the OR. We’re not waiting,” Roz says, glancing at the chart before turning to the team. “This is a traumatic brain injury. Minutes matter.”
Sam watches, her jaw tightening. Roz’s confidence is palpable, and there’s no denying the woman’s skill, but there’s something about her that makes Sam uneasy. Maybe it’s the way Roz appears so certain, so ready to dive into the risky unknown. Sam approaches, her eyes meeting Roz’s with equal intensity.
“Is she going to make it?” Sam asks, her voice carrying the weight of responsibility she feels for every life she tries to save.
Roz doesn’t flinch. “We’re going to do everything we can,” she replies, her voice as steady as her hands. There’s a flicker of something in her expression, compassion, maybe, but it’s gone just as quickly, replaced by professional resolve. Roz turns to the surgical team, barking orders with a precision that makes Sam’s heart beat faster, though not from relief.
Sam steps back, watching as Roz disappears into the surgery suite. Her protective instincts are on high alert, and she can’t shake the feeling that she’s just met someone who could either save lives or make decisions that border on reckless. Either way, she knows that Roz Harrington isn’t someone she’ll soon forget.
