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Doug Ross hated elevators.
Not for their smallness, their slowness, their occasional odors of antiseptic and microwave soup.
But because they were quiet. And in the silence, there she was.
Doors slid closed behind him, and before he could even light the numbers up—
there she was.
Standing beside him.
She looked like Carol. That was the worst part. Not exactly—but enough. Same soft mouth. Same tired eyes. But her heels were sharp. Her voice cut.
“Busy day, Doug?”
He didn’t answer.
And then she was just resting against a sheet of metal as though she had all the time in the world. “Another one of the kids broke his collarbone. Another pair of unproveable bruises on the body politic.
Doug closed his eyes.
“What’d you say to the mom this time? she asked. “Something calm? Professional? Your smile — you did it so she wouldn’t feel judged?”
“Stop.”
“Did you want to hit her?”
“I said stop.”
Guilt only smiled. It was slow. Familiar. Intimate.
“You always want to keep them,” she said. “That’s your favorite lie.”
He made a fist with his hand.
“I’m just doing my job.”
“No,” she whispered, stepping closer. “You’re doing penance.”
He looked at her now. Really looked.
“You think I became a pediatrician as punishment?
Her eyes softened. “No. You do pediatric medicine because you can’t go back and not do that.”
He turned away.
“But I’m still there,” she said. “Any time you linger too much over a chart. Each and every time you dream about that little boy in Arizona. Or that baby with the seizures. Or — God help you — the sound of your own father’s voice in the hallway, and God, it’s just some resident shouting at a nurse.”
Doug swallowed hard.
“You don’t save them all,” she said. “But you’ll kill yourself trying.”
“I have to,” he said. “You don’t get it. I have to.”
“Why?”
His chest heaved as if he’d run three flights.
“Because I didn’t save him.”
There it was.
The elevator dinged. First floor.
He didn’t move.
Guilt smoothed down her coat. “You could tell someone. You could let Carol in. You could let anyone in.”
“I’m not good at that.”
“You were once.”
He shook his head. “That version of me is gone.”
She nodded. “Then I shall be remaining, I suppose.
The doors opened.
She didn’t step out. She never did.
Doug walked down the hall.
Past reception. Past the board. Past Carter scribbling a chart. He smiled at Malik, made a sarcastic comment to Jerry. How his shoulders weighed him down went unnoticed by all.
He stopped at Curtain 2. There was a baby girl there. Six, maybe. Curly hair. Limping with her arm held up as though it pained her to breathe.
Doug smiled for her.
Kneeled down.
“Hi,” he said gently. “I’m Doug. I’m going to look after you, all right?”
The girl nodded.
And there Guilt was at the door, just standing there watching you.
Just watching.