Chapter Text
It only took one 15-hour shift from hell for everyone to notice the newest Emergency Department MS4 was…weird.
Not in a creepy, borderline, antisocial kind of way. Quite the opposite, in fact. His wide, haunted eyes and ‘on-the-verge-of-tears’ demeanor, according to the nurses, was oddly endearing. He was exceptionally kind to patients, even when they pissed and bled and barfed on him. Duty and responsibility weighed heavily on his shoulders, but not to the point of collapse, even after the loss of his first patient. He was sociable, albeit a bit awkward. Social cues and pop culture references flew overhead like aircraft. But, also according to the nurses, it was outweighed by pretty privilege — or, more accurately, ‘charming foreign accent’ privilege.
It was the little things that raised flags and caught side-eyes. Passing comments, or facial expressions, or subconscious fidgets. It was underreacting and overreacting to the harrows thrown about in an emergency room. Pieces of a puzzle that clearly did not go together.
“Dennis Whitaker, MS4,” the poor, naive soul introduced himself right at central command for half the staff to hear and instantly clock his unique accent. The Pitt was a proudly diverse workplace, but even that was a zebra here.
Dr. Robby arched an eyebrow. “International?”
And because he already caught the ear of half the staff, he nearly brought the endless rush of the ER to a screeching halt when he shook his head and said, “Nebraska.”
By 7:30 AM, it was the talk of the department. Nurses, doctors, even janitorial and security staff whispering, “Did you hear? New med student, with the British accent. Says he’s from Nebraska.”
If you asked a doctor, they’d claim nurses were the notorious gossips. But everyone at a hospital knew doctors were notorious hypocrites who loved to theorize. Shooting out their own explanations, diagnoses, clambering to be the victor, the one to hit the nail on the head and uncover the great mystery lying beneath — medical or not.
“He’s playing coy,” Langdon brushed it off. “British humor. All cynicism…”
“Perhaps he just took the question too literally?” guessed Dr. Mel King. As the new transfer resident from the VA, she was innocent of the Pitt’s snarky nihilism. “Who’s to say he didn’t move to Nebraska from the UK? Maybe grew up there, sees it more as a home.”
“Wouldn’t his accent be more, you know. Faded?” Mohan shrugged, scanning the patient board for her next case. “Like, no offense, but he sounds like everyone I met in London, last time I visited.”
“The opposite, then!” Javadi, the other new med student, suggested with uneasy enthusiasm. “Maybe he was born in Nebraska but grew up abroad.”
“Maybe,” a firm voice cut in. Everyone froze, knowing they were busted as Dana, charge nurse and ED ringmaster, crossed her arms. “You should save this energy for your patients. Figure out their problems.”
-.-.-.-
There was a way to make the puzzle fit, even though it called for scissors and glue. But that extra grace didn’t even last him through the end of the shift. Hell, it didn’t even last him through the hour. After Dana burst in with the delayed DNR from the nursing home, Dr. Robby called for everyone to take a moment of silence — only for it to be interrupted by music blaring from Whitaker’s pocket.
“CAN YOU DANCE LIKE A HIPPOGRIFF? MA MA MA, MA MA MA, MA MA MA. FLYIN’ OFF FROM A CLIFF-”
“Shit, shit, shit!” Whitaker fumbled for the phone, silencing it as quickly as he could, but not fast enough to stop the ripple through the staff. Mohan broke out into an unconvincing cough as Dana stared up at the ceiling, and Langdon rubbed his mouth in a barely disguised attempt to hide his laughter. “I am so sorry-”
“It’s okay. Next time, keep the phone on silent at work,” Robby suggested, and Langdon snorted, guttural and harsh.
“Or change your ringtone,” he suggested. When a few people glared, he gestured to the powered-down cardiac monitor. “I mean, c’mon. What was that? Radiohead’s long-lost demo?”
Dana clicked her tongue. “Please. That was clearly Pulp.”
Robby glanced pointedly between them, warning them to set a better example and respect the moment. Whitaker petulantly shook his head and shoved his phone back in his pocket.
“Not aware of any Radioheads or Pulps. It’s…just a band from back home. You’ve definitely never heard of them.”
The whole room stirred in shock, Dana clutching her pearls. Robby didn’t have it in him to shut it down. Was this a sign? Was he really that old? At least let him reach retirement first.
“You don’t- they’re, like, they greatest rock bands to ever exist,” Langdon sputtered indignantly. “They’re literally both English! Land of your people!”
Whitaker jerked back like he was slapped, clutching his own figurative pearls. “The English aren’t my people.”
“Who are, then? Cornhuskers?”
“Wha– cornhusker?”
Whitaker glanced around, brow furrowed. Mohan took pity, leaning in and whispering, “Nebraska. Y’know. Cornhusker state?”
“Oh.” Whitaker not-so-subtly gulped. “Then…yes?”
-.-.-.-
“Be so for real, Huckleberry. There’s no way you’re ’just from Nebraska.’ I bet you can’t even point it out on a map,” said Trinity Santos, the gunner newbie intern with a penchant for pushing buttons.
“Can to!” Whitaker sputtered indignantly, buttons successfully pushed.
“Oh, yeah? Which part are you from, then?”
“Broken Bow.” He crossed his arms — a blatant show of confidence that somehow portrayed the opposite. Shaky. Closed off, Uncomfortable. Trinity blamed his perpetually slumped shoulders and eye bags.
“Hmm…sounds made up.”
“It’s not. Look it up.”
Trinity, never one to turn down a petty challenge, whipped out her phone and typed it into Google Maps. The city pulled up, which, fair enough. She could admit when she was wrong — but only when she was wrong. And something still didn’t add up.
“You gotta be joking.” At Whitaker’s confused grimace, she held up her phone, showing off the zoomed-out image of the United States with Broken Bow, Nebraska, pinned as a tiny dot. “You know I’m not stupid, right?”
Whitaker huffed, cheeks puffed. “I don’t know anything about you.”
Huh. Huckleberry had jokes. Maybe intentionally, maybe not. Either way, game-recognized-game. At least he wasn’t as frail as he looked.
“Touche, Huckleberry,” Trinity smirked, eyebrow quirked. “Just a word from the wise: next time you pick a random place in America, don’t just point at the center of the map.”
Whitaker’s eyes bulged impossibly wide, sputtering denials. All fluff, in Trinity’s eyes. She didn’t understand why the kid insisted he wasn’t from across the pond, but goddamn was it funny.
-.-.-.-
Whatever the reason, Whitaker stuck to the story.
“Your parents must be proud. Having their son become a doctor,” Mr. Milton said. Whitaker tilted his head and shrugged.
“My family isn’t big on, uh. Traditional education? They don’t really…get it, I guess? I’m the first to ever go to uni. Er, college, I mean.”
Mr. Milton hummed. “My daughter’s the same as you. First in our family. Let me tell you, I’m damn proud, but that didn’t stop my heart attack when she decided to go to Howard. Just a four-hour drive, but felt like an ocean. Can’t imagine what it’s like, being separated by an actual ocean.”
“Me neither,” Whitaker smiled like a polite muppet. “I’m from Nebraska.”
It wasn’t just his patients peppering him with questions and assumptions. The poor kid couldn’t walk twenty feet without someone stopping to hear the story for themselves.
“You! Pasty White!” Earl called out. “Where you from?”
Whitaker slowed his stride. Exhaustion weighed on his shoulders, despite only being two hours into the shift. “Nebraska, sir.”
“Boy, now you lyin’. Redcoat from Nebraska. Ha! With that accent? British as the Queen.”
Whitaker grimaced like he just smelled bad diarrhea. “My accent is not British.”
That wasn’t even the worst of them. Mateo and Donnie had to step in when Myrna threatened to bust Whitaker’s Achille’s Heel with her wheelchair, screaming, “I know a Limey pussy cat when I see one!”
“Ain’t no way,” Mateo muttered to Donnie, shaking his head as Whitaker fled to the safety of another patient’s room. “It’s gotta be a bit, right? I mean, Nebraska?”
Donnie clicked his tongue. “C’mon, now. You don’t say Mexico when white people ask what country you're from.”
“Yeah, you’re right. ‘Cuz I say California, which is a) true, and b) makes sense! If I was moving like that white boy, I’d be telling people I’m from Ireland.”
“I dare you to do that next time,” said Nurse Kim as she passed by. “Even give you five bucks if you get it on camera.”
Mateo accepted without a blink because, hey, five dollars was five dollars.
-.-.-.-
The only person who took Whitaker at his word was Dr. Robby. Well, perhaps more accurately, Robby didn’t really give a shit whether the kid was from Nebraska, or England, or goddamn Antarctica. What mattered was his skills with patients, his adaptability to the pace and demand of the ER, and his dedication to learning and becoming a doctor. Accents and heritage didn’t dictate a good doctor. Knowledge and compassion did.
The kid had real potential, too. More than Robby expected. Whitaker was quick to help, but never overbearing, never pushing to perform procedures beyond his skill. He proved his knowledge and quick thinking by speaking up when quizzed by the residents. Perhaps most importantly, he didn’t have an ego and listened to the wisdom of the nurses without instruction. Dr. Mohan even pulled Robby aside to compliment the kid’s empathy toward patients. When the paramedics brought in a black woman writhing in pain, speculating drug-seeking behavior, the kid was the first to intervene and advocate for her.
“He’s seen sickle-cell before?” Robby pondered. Mohan shook her head.
“Barely even heard of it, much less the pain it caused. Just said he had a feeling she needed help,” she said. “Curious if he can spot the fakers too. Or maybe he just believes the best in everyone.”
“Well, in an environment like this, you figure that out pretty quickly,” said Robby, tracking Whitaker as he offered to help a nurse hand out warm blankets to patients. “If you see a potential case like that, make sure he’s with you. Oh, and — hey! Whitaker! No running in the ER!
Whitaker, who dropped his pile of blankets out of nowhere and sprinted past the central to the south side of the building, acknowledged the warning with a panicked, “Sorry!”, but didn’t slow pace. And, admittedly, Robby couldn’t help but think, okay, maybe this kid is kinda weird.
When the med student stopped in front of an older patient sleeping, he thought the kid just gotten spooked. It was easy to assume, especially on your first day, that any unconscious patient must be dying. Truth was, especially after waiting hours, sometimes even overnight to be seen, most patients dozed off at least once. Whitaker rubbed the patient’s sternum, calling out his name, and Robby was moving before the kid called out, “I need a little help here!”
“Not even hooked up to a monitor?” Langdon muttered as he rushed in to help. “How the hell did the kid know?”
“Lucky. Or a miracle,” Nurse Kim offered. Robby couldn’t help but silently agree.
The ER was no stranger to tragedies and miracles. Robby witnessed them damn near every day. It didn’t lessen the impact. Watching Whitaker administer CPR until he was sweaty and out of breath, and even then, determinedly keeping at it was a tragedy. The patient, Mr. Milton, was in asystole when they started compressions, but after three rounds of epi and continuous compressions, they got a rhythm. A miracle. But one miracle was not enough. Defibrillation didn’t work. Langdon suggested a Hail Mary — double sequential defibrillation. Whitaker begged them to give it a try, and Robby figured it was a miracle they got a rhythm back. Hell, like Kim said: it was a miracle the kid caught the arrest when he did. It was their duty to perform more.
“No pulse on the A-line,” said Mel, expression grim. Langdon sighed, stepping back, while Whitaker resumed compressions.
“What else can we do?” the kid asked. “There’s gotta be something. Right?”
Robby shook his head. “Another round of epi. Then call it.”
“What about ECMO?” Langdon suggested. Robby schooled his expression, pushing back his own haunting tragedies. “Kid caught it quick. Maybe within the 5-minute CPR window.”
“ECMO? What’s that?” Whitaker gasped. Robby tried to meet his tragic eyes, but only saw Adamson. He rubbed his face and turned to Langdon instead.
“Need an initial rhythm of V-fib, V-tach, or PEA for ECMO. Mr. Milton had none. Sorry, kid.” He wasn’t sure if Whitaker heard him, staring down at his patient as he continued compressions. Robby nodded to Mel. “Another round. Could make a difference. But if not, call it.”
It was a tragedy, losing your first patient. A day didn’t pass without Robby thinking about his first loss, even 30 years later. He let Whitaker persist long after all hope was lost — until he stopped chasing the miracle and accepted the reality. Despite his ragged breathing and haunted eyes, Whitaker didn’t cry, even when Robby gave them a moment to process. He sat in the emotion, clearly running through everything that went wrong and every possible thing he could’ve done differently. Robby knew that because he did the same damn thing. All good doctors did.
As horrible as it sounded, Whitaker was lucky. Because his first patient's death was truly a tragedy. It only became more evident as they debriefed. Mr. Milton complained of stomach pain. They found a gallstone. Even then, they ran the EKG, just to be safe, and nothing of concern popped up. There was no reason to expend limited resources and hook Mr. Milton up to a monitor. No reason to suspect coronary artery disease with the information available at the time. Under any other doctor, or at any other hospital, Mr. Milton’s arrest would’ve gone unnoticed for ten, even twenty more minutes.
“This line of work, we see a lot of miracles,” said Robby. “It can start to feel like you can save every patient if you just order enough tests, pay enough attention, and act quickly enough. But it’s important to remember — what we do is not magic. It’s medicine.”
You would’ve thought Robby sucker-punched Whitaker in the gut with how he flinched back, wrapping his arms around his torso like a hug. And again, Robby couldn’t help but think, that was weird.
Robby brushed it off as the kid taking the loss hard. When they completed the debrief and moment of silence, he called for Whitaker to hang back. Robby’s suspicions were confirmed as Whitaker revealed how he blamed himself for Mr. Milton’s death.
“This was not your fault,” Robby insisted. “This was nobody’s fault. No doctor on the planet could have caught this. Hell, I still don’t understand how you caught the arrest, and I watched it happen.”
Robby wasn’t sure what to make of Whitaker’s darting eyes and worried lips. After a long pause, the kid shrugged and explained, “Dunno. I just…had a feeling.”
Had a feeling. Mohan mentioned him saying the same thing about the sickle-cell patient. And don’t get him wrong; Robby was a firm believer that a doctor’s best tool was their gut. Trusting your instincts far outweighed any textbook or god-forbidden AI system. It was also something that took most doctors years of training and failures caused by ignoring instincts to learn how to utilize it well. There was a lot of room for error, especially for young doctors. A med student relying on that feeling to the patient’s benefit once was a great sign of a good doctor. But twice? In the same hour?
Weird.
-.-.-.-
It was more than the accent calling Whitaker’s claimed Nebraska heritage into question. It was the way he walked up to the nurses' station, meek as a mouse, and said, “Uh, Nurse Dana?”
“Just Dana will do, kid,” she said, peering over her glasses. “What can I do for you? Issue with a patient?”
“O-Oh, no, not that. I was just…” Whitaker wrung his hands. Dana contemplated telling the kid to speak up or move on, but she held her tongue. Robby asked her to keep an eye on Whitaker. Personally, she wasn’t one for coddling. Pressure makes diamonds, and only someone as tough as a diamond could survive the ER. But if Robby saw potential, then who was she to judge? (Out loud, at least).
“Do you know what a huckleberry is?”
Dana removed her glasses to get a better look at the kid. His cheeks were red enough to look feverish.
“Come again?”
To Whitaker’s credit, he didn’t crumble or run away. “Huckleberry. Santos keeps calling me that. Guess it’s because I said I’m from Nebraska. I mean, I am. From Nebraska. I just…don’t get what they have to do with each other.”
“They don’t make you read that book in school anymore?” When the kid stared blankly, Dana clarified. “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. You really never heard of it before? Great. Now I feel old.”
“Oh. I’m sorry…” Whitaker said, but Dana waved him off, turning to the other nurses at the desk.
“They don’t make kids read Huckleberry Finn anymore?”
Mateo held up his hands. “Don’t look at me. I read it. Hated it, but read it.”
“Mine did too,” said Perlah. “They’re younger, too. Don’t know what was wrong with your school.”
“A lot of things…” Whitaker answered quickly, then grimaced. “Guess I’ll…add it to my reading list.”
It was particularly damning when the nurses recruited Whitaker to give the Kraken his next dosage, and Donnie pulled him aside and asked, “You play any ball?”
“What, football?” Whitaker said, struggling to get his glove on. Donnie rolled his eyes.
“No, dodgeball.”
“What’s dodgeball?”
“What’s- you don’t know dodgeball? The hell did you do in P.E. class?” The med student only looked more confused. Donnie took off his stethoscope and said a silent prayer. “Don’t tell me you didn’t have no P.E. class. Jesus, man. What kind of school did you go to?”
“Uh…I was…home schooled? Until I was fourteen.”
“...that makes a lot of sense, actually.” At least he could tell Dana to cancel her letter of complaint on book bans in public schools. “Whatever. Point is- football. You gotta know football.”
Whitaker perked up in a way Donnie hadn’t seen yet, actually smiling with light in his eyes. “Oh, I love football. Family thinks it’s weird, so I didn’t really learn until I was fourteen. First thing I ever bought for myself was a footie. Diehard Cardiff boyo, but I’ll pull for Liverpool too. You?”
Donnie stared. Looked over to Larry for help. The other nurse just shrugged.
“Bro…are you talking about soccer?”
“Soccer?” Whitaker repeated it like it was a slur, only to visibly double-take. “Oh, er, I-I mean-”
“I’m asking you about football. American football. You know what that is?”
“Pfft, yes. I just…got them confused. Back home, we call…soccer ‘football,’ you know?”
“Your home…in Nebraska?”
And see, back when Mateo was riding Whitaker’s case, Donnie chose not to judge. He didn’t pretend to understand white people and their quirks. If the silly British man said he was from Nebraska, he was from Nebraska. But this? This was undeniable. Unforgivable.
The Kraken let out a bellowing scream. Dana eyed them pointedly. “Are we sports pundits or medical providers? Speed it up, boys.”
“Look, here’s the play,” Donnie said. He didn’t know shit about that football, but hopefully some level of it translated over. “Larry and I are gonna block for you. Come in right behind us. When we split, and go for his legs, you go right up the middle. That make sense?”
“Yeah, actually.” Whitaker sounded just as surprised as Donnie. “Sounds a lot like Quid-”
The kid pulled a face that could only be described as swallowing a frog. Against all laws of physics and medicine, Whitaker’s skin washed even more pale. Corpse-level whiteness. Donnie might be concerned for his health if he weren’t more concerned for the screaming patient in the other room.
“You ready?” Dana called, and Donnie filed the moment away for later. ‘Later’ being as soon as they sedated the Kraken, and Whitaker ran off to change his piss-soaked scrubs. Donnie wasted no time marching up to Mateo, who was placing his bet on the ambulance on Ahmad’s board.
“Do you know what Quid is?”
Mateo’s brow furrowed. “Quid?”
“Yeah. I’m giving Nebraska over there the End Zone sedation play. First, he don’t know what dodgeball is, but that’s a whole other story. Then, I tell him we’re talking football, and he thinks I mean soccer. Like, c’mon, man.”
“Hey, I might be with the white boy on this one. Rest of the world calls it fútbol.”
“Yeah, but a good ol’ Nebraska boy wouldn’t,” Ahmad pointed out with a shrug, phone in hand. “And get this. Googled what a quid is. You know what I got?”
“Secret code for, ‘I’m not from Nebraska’?” Mateo muttered.
“Pretty much. It’s British slang for the pound. Like, their version of dollar bills.”
Donnie shook his head in growing disbelief. “Something’s just not right here. Don’t get me wrong, he seems like a cool dude. It’s just so. Weird.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying. Can’t tell if he’s hiding something or just, like, a complete weirdo,” said Mateo before turning back to Ahmad. “Hey. You think I can change my bet from 15 bucks to 15 quid?”
“Man, get that weak-ass colonizer money away from my board,” Ahmad mused, shoving Mateo playfully. “It’s crazy, though. Half a day in, and I could already start a whole new board for this kid. Where he from, why he lying, what’s the big secret…”
Mateo shrugged. “Why don’t you?”
“Dana says no betting boards on coworkers. Calls it an ‘HR Nightmare’. But if Tea-n-Crumpets keeps it up, I might need to go off books. For the good of the people, you know.”
Donnie bumped Ahmad’s fist. “Amen, brother.”
-.-.-.-
Heather Collins had a big problem with the new med student. And no, it’s not his accent — why was everyone so obsessed with that? Nor was it his uncanny ability to get drenched in medical and bodily fluids. Better him than her. No one wanted to be the Scrub Star. It wasn’t even how, moments after meeting for the first time, he awkwardly looked down at her belly and gave her a goddamn thumbs up.
Well, she had a slight issue with that; mostly because she couldn’t fathom how he knew. Dana clocking it? About as shocking as rain in spring. The Nepali woman? Mildly horrifying, but many non-Western cultures were more cognizant of the subtle signs of pregnancy. But the 25-year-old white boy she just met? Incomprehensible. He didn’t even seem aware of the gossip spotlight shining right in his eyes!
At least he had the wherewithal for subtlety. Whitaker waited for a brief moment of privacy with Heather to whisper “Congratulations”, followed by a panicked “Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” when she informed him it was still a secret.
No, the issue was the rats. Heather didn’t fuck with rats, and she certainly didn’t fuck with people who fucked with rats. And Whitaker? He was moving real weird with the rats.
“Looks like you got all your toes,” Heather heard from behind a drawn curtain. “That’s good. Or else your days would be numbered, buddy.”
Like any logical person, she assumed someone was threatening a patient. She pulled back the curtain, ‘security!’ on the tip of her lips — only to find Whitaker squatting eye-level with the foot of any empty bed.
No, wait. Not an empty bed. A bed with a rat.
Heather, a logical person, screeched in bloody terror and yanked the curtains closed, like that would keep the rat contained. In a blink, Robby was at her side, looking for a fight or a dying patient.
“What is it? Dr. Collins?”
Heather could only gasp and heave, pointing a shaky finger at the curtain. Dana sped to her other side, squeezing Heather’s arm and steadying her weight. She curled back in disgusted anticipation as Robby wrenched the curtain back open to reveal Whitaker. Just Whitaker. No vermin in sight.
“Uh…” the kid said, awkwardly glancing between them.
Robby craned his head in search of a problem, but found none. “Whitaker? What…”
“The rat,” Heather gaped. “Whe-Where’s the rat?”
Whitaker blinked. “What rat?”
“Wha-” What rat? What rat? Was this a joke? Another one of his perpetual bits, like the Nebraska bullshit? “The one you were talking to!”
“Talking to a rat?” Dana echoed, wearing her smothered grin that usually meant: ‘Well, this wasn’t on my bingo card.’
“I-I’m so sorry, Dr. Collins. I was just…changing my scrubs. Again,” the kid said, eyes as big and sad as his eyebags. He raised the lump of soiled scrubs clutched awkwardly with both hands, forearms braced like he thought they might run away.
And look, maybe, just maybe that was true. Maybe her rat-paranoia played a dirty trick, and the poor British-Nebraskan farm boy was innocent. Maybe she’d believe it, if not less than five minutes later, she stepped into the locker room to take a breather, and heard that same voice whispering bizarre things.
“You stay in here, okay? Plenty of room to explore, safe from wheels and knives and feet. Stay out of that box, alright? That’s the only food I have left.”
This time, Heather learned. She swallowed her instincts to scream and panic, silently peering around the hallway and into the staff lockers. Sure enough, Whitaker sat on the bench, locker open, dirty scrubs at his side, and head buried deep into a ragged maroon backpack with a lion emblem.
What the actual fuck is this bullshit? she mused internally, shaking her head.
“I’ll try to rescue your siblings, so just- chill out, okay? Oh, and, um. If you’re, like, secretly a person…just let me know. It’s not a problem now, but it will become one. Trust me.”
Whitaker pulled his head out of the bag, zipping it closed. He hummed as he rehung it in his locker, utterly oblivious of being watched.
Now, Heather didn’t have any proof. She watched the backpack closely for any squirming or squeaking — anything to indicate a rat — but found none. The backpack looked practically empty; too flat to even hold a book, much less a live animal. It didn’t matter. She knew, somehow, someway, there was a fucking rat in that backpack.
“Didn’t you hear me? Rats. In his backpack.”
Dana, however, failed to share her level of concern.
“Hey, better there than patients’ beds,” the charge nurse mumbled, barely glancing up from her tablet.
“You don’t- You don’t think it’s weird?” Heather hissed, not so subtly tracking Whitaker as he moved through the ER. He checked in on patients with a smile, even when they yelled at him, and stopped for any nurse in need. Nothing to indicate dirty rat boy behavior. But Heather knew better. She won’t be deceived any longer.
“Honey, trust me. From what I’m hearing, that’s hardly the weirdest thing the kid’s done today.”
“He talked to it. Like it was a human.”
Dana paused her typing, head tilted, considering. “Was it?”
“No! It’s a rat!”
“Never know,” Dana shrugged, smirking. When Heather shook her head furiously, she reached up and patted her shoulder. “Oh, don’t worry about it. The kid’s weird, but he’s got a big heart. Probably one of those ‘every life is a precious gift from God’ types. You know. Like Vegans.”
Heather huffed. Why did it feel like she was the only logical, rational person when it came to the goddamn rats? They’re doctors! They know better than anyone how many diseases rats carry. Hello? Ever heard of the plague?
“Should I report this to someone? I mean, weird Vegan morals aside, we can’t have a med student carrying rats in his backpack.”
“You can. Probably should. I mean, if you wanna deal with rats running around this place for another week, ‘cause that’s the soonest pest control is coming.”
Heather gritted her teeth, looking everywhere but Dana’s smug face, before throwing her hands up in defeat. It was like Dana said. Better in that damn backpack than a patient’s bed.
“Why the hell not. Already running a circus. Might as well keep the clown act.”
“Now you’re getting it,” said Dana, squeezing Heather with a tight side hug. “Gotta have a few loose screws to succeed in this environment. Kid has real potential — or, at least, that’s what Robby thinks.”
“Of course, he does,” Heather puffed out her cheeks. Robby claimed to never have favorites, but at this rate, Heather could draft the blueprint from memory. Whitaker checked a lot of boxes, even if he was weird. “You know, he clocked me. About you-know-what.”
For some reason, that invoked a stronger shocked reaction from Dana than the rats. Heather snorted and continued, “Oh, I know. I know. Just one look, right after I met him, and he figured it out. And you wanna know how he reacted? Gave me a stupid thumbs up.”
They dissolved into silent snickers, trying to not draw too much attention. Dana rubbed her eyes, snapping her tablet shut.
“Jesus. What a strange kid.”
-.-.-.-
On principal, Samira Mohan never had high expectations for new med students rotating through the ER. It wasn’t cynical, or judgmental, or rooted in the mindset of not getting attached, since most med students were only a 4-6 week blimp in her life before moving on from the ER forever. It was realism, and in this line of work, it made her a better teacher. She understood that they were going to mess up, and say the wrong thing, and miss even obvious diagnoses. That’s where her expectations lay, and it allowed her to meet the students where they really were and build them up with a kind but firm guiding hand.
When Whitaker jumped in to help the patient with sickle-cell, even before Samira understood the situation, it threw her off. Most doctors would write Joyce off as drug-seeking, just like the EMTs. She expected the med student to do the same. But he didn’t. So, her expectation rose a little bit…only to stumble again when Whitaker sheepishly revealed he, like most doctors, knew nothing about the pain sickle-cell disease caused.
“How did you know, then? That her pain was real?” Samira questioned. If it really was a simple ‘feeling’, like the kid said, then the odds were Whitaker was an overly empathetic person who would respond that way to anyone screaming they were in pain — real and acting.
“Back home, I saw…something happen to this person. It wasn’t sickle-cell or anything like that. It’s hard to explain what happened to them, but it caused them so much pain. Impossible pain. It didn’t last long, thankfully, but…I’ll never forget how they looked. In that moment, I felt so…helpless. I didn’t know what to do.”
Samira heard the rumors all morning about Whitaker. About his accent, and where he was from, and his quirks. She heard Langdon call him a ‘haunted Victorian child’ right in front of Dr. Robby when Whitaker lost his first patient. She thought he was being an ass, but looking at him now? With the distant, glassy gleam in his eyes as he stared at nothing? She couldn’t help but think: Oh. Yeah, that’s a haunted Victorian child, right there.
Mix those big, sad eyes with ungodly bad luck? Screw Samira’s expectations. She just felt pity. Not the condescending side. More like a deep-rooted need to pat the kid on the head and tell him, ‘it’s going to be okay, you got this.’
So, she gave him a softball. Biking accident resulting in cellulitis and a hematoma in need of debriding. Should be easy. A good confidence boost. Help him get his feet back under him. When he asked to step outside the patient’s room, she expected him to bring up the coddling. Instead, she got the opposite.
“Do you mind overseeing while I do it? In case something goes wrong?”
Samira frowned. “Like what?”
“I don’t know,” he said, sad puppy-dog eyes locked on the floor. “I just…have a weird feeling.”
This was hardly the first time the ER traumatized a med student to the point of shattered confidence, but usually it took a whole shift to get to this point. Whitaker’s morning was exceptionally rough, but she expected him to be a bit stronger. Frustrating, given the praise she shared with Dr. Robby earlier.
“Hey. Not every case is a catastrophe waiting to happen, okay? Take the easy ones where you can get them. You got this. Work your magic.”
Whitaker flinched, eyes darting side-to-side. “I'm not- I don't have magic.”
“I...know...?” Samira tilted her head. She could tell by the worried lines in his face that Whitaker was bothered — like, overly so. Maybe he took things too literally? She'd have to be mindful if that was the case, but he seemed to grasp Santos' jokes and sarcasm just fine earlier.
Whatever it was, it didn't matter to the overall care of the patient. Whitaker regained his bearings and nodded grimly, heading back into the room. Samira thought that was it. She moved on to her next patient, barely sitting down when she heard a familiar voice call out, “I need a little help here!”
By the time she returned, Whitaker’s face was covered in blood. A simple blister turned out to be a cut arteriole under a ballotable vesicle. Something that, untreated, could’ve ended in hemorrhage and possibly Mr. Chazen’s death.
After they sutured the patient up, Samira pulled Whitaker aside at the scrubs machine.
“Did you know? That it might be arteriole?” she asked. “Because if you did, you should’ve spoken up. Even if you weren’t confident. That’s what we do as doctors. Identify possible issues and talk them through together to rule them out.”
Whitaker gestured to the blood smeared on his face. “Does it look like I knew?”
“You said you had a feeling.”
Whitaker mumbled something unintelligible under his breath, punching in his information to the machine. After a second, it opened, revealing a pair of light blue scrubs available to grab, rather than the standard black for ER doctors.
“It’s out of my size,” Whitaker explained dryly. “Can I get some privacy?”
“Sure. Can I get an answer?”
The kid sighed like she just asked him to explain the concept of death to a child. Samira crossed her arms. She didn’t care that he was in a hospital gown. If she had to stand here and wait until he was stripped down to get her answer, then so be it.
“I don’t really have one. It was just a bad gut feeling. I didn’t think about an artery or anything like that. Trust me, if I did, I would’ve said something. Or at least worn a protective gown.”
Samira didn’t like the answer, but there was no point in arguing the issue. She believed him when he said he didn’t recognize the exact issue. Just like she believed he didn’t know it was sickle-cell when he helped Joyce. Samira was no stranger to following gut feelings when it came to patient care. She actually considered herself a bit of a master in that area. She could spot a faker from any line-up; she frequently clocked when patients were hiding information. So when her gut told her that Whitaker was hiding something, she knew it was right. She just couldn’t pinpoint what.
-.-.-.-
“Hey, do you know if they’re going to give us lunch? It’s past 12:00, and I’m starving,” Whitaker asked Javadi when she and Cassie gathered at the central hub, per Dr. Robby’s request. Cassie wanted to laugh — feed them? They barely had time to eat a granola bar, much less get fed lunch — but the kid looked so desperately hungry, Cassie didn’t have it in her. Jesus, when Langdon called Whitaker a ‘haunted Victorian orphan,’ she brushed it off as a gross overexaggeration. Now, she couldn’t unsee it. His sunken cheeks, eyebags more impressive than a Birkin, and skin worthy of his ginger-ish hair. Despite reminding herself that this was a grown adult and her coworker, Cassie’s motherly instincts screamed to wrap Whitaker up in a blanket and feed him a whole Thanksgiving feast.
She settled on passing over the protein bar in her pocket instead.
“Pack a bunch of these for your next shift,” she recommended. “If you’re really desperate, there’s a Taco Bell that will DoorDash to the ER, but no promises you’ll have time to eat it. There’s no time for breaks around here.”
“Thanks,” Whitaker nodded, pursing his lips. He took the offered snack, smacking it around in his hands for a few seconds. “Um. What is that, exactly?”
Cassie blinked, trying to control her expression. “It’s a Cliff bar. Allergens are on the back, if you’re worried-”
“No, no. The thing you just said. Taco Bell and Door…”
Cassie did not succeed in controlling her face the second time. Thankfully, Javadi was much worse; her jaw opened wide enough to catch flies as she gaped, “You’ve…never heard of DoorDash? Or Taco Bell?”
Whitaker cringed, scratching the back of his neck. “Uh…no? Should I?”
“Well,” Cassie started, trying to very professionally suppress her urge to codle the poor, lost not-child. “Pretty sure both are single-handedly kept in business by med students, but uh. It’s not impossible. Probably better for your nutrition and your wallet.”
Though if Cassie had to guess, Whitaker wasn’t exactly fruitful in either of those categories anyway.
“Oh,” Whitaker hummed, slapping the protein bar in his hands a few more times. “Guess we just don’t have them where I’m from.”
Of course, he had to say this with half the staff gathered around for Robby’s informal meeting. It was like the starting pistol was fired, and kicking off a race of whisper-telephone and judgmental side-eyes. Cassie was torn between her hackles rising defensively, and pulling Whitaker aside to kindly explain that he wasn’t helping his situation. Hell, was the kid even aware of the situation he dug himself into? Maybe not. Cassie wasn’t sure which was worse: knowing or not knowing everyone was talking about you. It wasn’t like people were talking shit, per se; they were just…confused. And probably in desperate need of a good distraction from the perils of their work.
Cassie decided not to broach the subject. It was way out of her pay grade. She did, however, pull Whitaker aside after the meeting to show him the DoorDash app and Taco Bell menu. This was a teaching hospital, after all.
-.-.-.-
“My God. He even eats like a poor Victorian child,” Dr. Langdon muttered, aptly watching Whitaker scarf down another sandwich from the donated lunch. Victoria perked up, fingers slowing on the keyboard. It was clear Langdon was speaking to Dr. King, based on how he shouldered up next to her, overlooking the central hub. With most of Victoria’s morning spent with Dr. McKay, she didn’t know either doctor particularly well. They seemed like an odd pair, yet Langdon clearly trusted Mel enough to gossip.
Though from her experience so far, gossip seemed like a plentiful currency in the ER. Almost everyone knew about her ‘fall’ within her first hour on shift. So far, the rumor mill surrounding her parents stayed hush-hush, even after her mom’s disastrous visit. Victoria supposed she only had her fellow med student to thank. No matter how hard Whitaker tried to escape it, the gossip spotlight refused to leave.
“That’s not very kind,” said Mel, lips pursed and hands clasped, rocking lightly on her feet.
“Sorry. It’s just — I’ve seen street dogs act less starved. You think they feed them much, back in ‘Nebraska’?”
Mel, seemingly disinterested in the conversation, wandered off without an explanation. Langdon sighed, cracking his neck and mumbling under his breath. Then his wide, wild eyes locked on Victoria.
“What do you think?”
“Hu-Huh?”
Gods, could she sound any more pathetic? It was such a simple question. Langdon, at least, kept his reaction to a slight squint, jerking his chin in Whitaker’s direction.
“Your med school buddy over there. Got any insight on him?”
“Oh, he’s not my buddy — med school! I mean, med school buddy. We’re not, like, classmates, or anything. I just met him today…” Langdon’s eyebrows pinched together, and Victoria prayed the ground would open up and swallow her whole. “Aaaaand, that’s not what you asked at all. Right. Sorry. Um.”
“Dr. Langdon! Need your help over here!”
Thankfully, the universe took pity on her in another way as a nurse called Langdon away. Victoria slumped down in her chair and buried her face in her hands, wishing the day would end already. Or, better yet, she could restart the whole thing like it never happened.
“Stupid. So stupid!”
“…is everything okay?”
Victoria jumped up, clipping her shoulder with Whitaker, who steadied her with a firm hand.
“God, I’m so sorry-”
“Hey, it's fine. No harm, no foul,” he shrugged before shoving his hands in his pockets. “What about you? How are you holding up?”
“Oh, I’m fine. I tripped hours ago, so…”
Whitaker smiled, lopsided, eyes shining with concern. “I meant, uh. The stuff with your mum? Seemed pretty intense. I’m sorry, if I made it worse. I should’ve reacted better.”
Victoria’s cheeks burned. “No, you don’t need to apologize. I-I should’ve handled it better. It’s just…moms, you know? It’s so…”
“Complicated?” Whitaker offered. His smile warped with a slight grimace. “I get it, really. My mam’s the same way.”
“She’s a doctor too?”
Based on the ‘Huckleberry’ nickname, paired with Santos’ snide comments about him being a farm boy, Victoria assumed Whitaker’s family were farmers. Not that farmers couldn’t be doctors, of course! She just…didn’t expect it. She also didn’t expect him to say he was from Nebraska.
“Merl– er, God no. Not at all. I don’t think she’s ever set foot in a proper hospital.”
That was…also unexpected. “Seriously? She’s never, like, gotten sick or anything? Or even to visit family?”
Whitaker’s face pinched. He started walking down the hall, gesturing with his head for Victoria to follow.
“It’s…not that, exactly. It’s, uh…how do I put it…”
“Oh. Is she, like, the holistic medicine type?”
“Something- Something like that,” Whitaker’s head bobbed, a mix between nodding and shaking his head. “I meant the overbearing part? Feeling pressured by their vision of your future. Like, don’t get me wrong, I know my mam means well, and she loves me lots. Everything she did for me, for my family, it was out of love. But that doesn’t invalidate the hurt it caused. Causes. I don’t know. Hold on.”
Whitaker poked his head into a room, checking in on a patient. Victoria waited until he finished before asking, “How did she take it? I mean, I assume you becoming a doctor was not what she planned.”
She couldn’t laugh at how adamantly he shook his head. “No. Not at all. She barely knew what a doctor was. Still doesn’t get it, honestly. She has a hard time…accepting how things turned out with me?”
“I get it,” Victoria said, reaching up to pat Whitaker’s shoulder, then chickening out before she made it weird…only to make it weird by not-so-subtly diverting her hand to adjust her ponytail. “Ugh. I don’t even want to think about my parents' reaction if I didn’t become a doctor.”
He sighed, exhausted, and rubbed his eyes. “Yeah. Don’t get me wrong, my mum, she’s a great mam. Raised a lot of kids under really hard circumstances, and my siblings, they all went on to do incredible things. She wants the best for me. It’s just…the best in her world isn’t the best in mine. I understand that now, but…I don’t think she does.”
Talk about a sucker punch to the gut. Victoria worried her lips as thoughts of her childhood surfaced; of her parents pushing and pushing, saying it was for the best. All to set her up to become the best doctor in the best field at the best hospital. She never understood how they always knew what ‘the best’ was.
“Code STEMI, Trauma 2 now. Code STEMI, Trauma 2 now.”
They both jolted to attention hearing the intercom. After hearing what happened with Mr. Milton this morning, Victoria wasn’t exactly eager to jump in on a STEMI case. Based on Whitaker’s haunted eyes, neither was he, but that didn’t stop him as Langdon called out, “Whitaker, you’re with me.”
Later, when the chaos paused, and Victoria heard the news about the successful ECMO treatment for the patient, she saw Whitaker near the nurse’s station on her way to help Dr. Mohan with the potential psychiatric patient. Their conversation earlier weighed heavily on her mind, and while she didn’t want to leave Mohan or the patient waiting, the idea of letting their conversation end how it did bothered her deeply. Even though it was the long way around, she diverted her path to pause at the nurse’s station.
“Heard about the patient. Congrats.”
Whitaker startled, fumbling his pen. “W-Wha? Oh, it was all Dr. Robby and Dr. Langdon. I didn’t do that much…”
“You helped save his life. That’s not nothing,” Victoria shrugged. “You said your siblings all went on to do incredible things. I think it’s safe to say you have too. No matter what your mom thinks. Sorry. Mam.”
She picked up the fallen pen and held it out to him. Whitaker blinked, mouth moving a bit like a fish. Finally, he smiled and took it — the pen and the compliment.
“Thanks. And hey, you should be proud too. Most MS3s don’t even take an EM rotation, much less this fresh into the school year. You’re doing pretty great, too. No matter what your Mom says. Or Santos, for that matter.”
Victoria ducked her head with a smile. Her eyes darted to where Dr. Mohan stood outside the patient’s room, chatting with a nurse. “I should get back…” She started to step away, but a piece of guilt still gnawed away at her stomach. “I’m really sorry, by the way. About all the gossip. I didn’t say much, but I feel bad that I didn’t speak up either. I know how it feels when people talk about you more than they talk to you.”
Whitaker’s brow furrowed, head tilting. “Wait. Are you– people are talking about me?”