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The relentless energy of the Emergency Department was a rhythm Santos had learned to dance around and even managed to keep up and learn. As a second-year resident, she thrived in the controlled chaos. She loved the adrenaline, the split-second decisions, the hands-on reality of setting a bone, stopping a bleed, or pulling a patient back from the brink. Out on the floor, Santos was a force of nature, she was quick and intuitive.
But as the digital clock on the nurses' station wall ticked past 9:00 PM, signalling the near end of her fifteen-hour shift, the adrenaline began to curdle into a familiar, heavy dread. The physical exertion of the day was nothing compared to the monumental, approaching mountain of administrative work waiting for her.
Charting.
To most doctors, charting was a nuisance—a tedious but necessary evil at the end of a long day. To Trinity, it was a battlefield where she was chronically outgunned.
She collapsed into a squeaky chair in the quietest corner which right now is the West station. However, as it stand it's not quiet at all, she stared blankly at the glowing monitor. Her inbox showed twenty-three incomplete patient charts. Twenty-three narratives to construct, twenty-three lists of medications to verify, twenty-three sets of vitals to input with absolute, legally-binding accuracy.
Trinity rubbed her eyes, the exhaustion scraping against her eyes. Her charting increased even if she make progress, as the patients kept on coming. She had dyslexia. It wasn't a secret, exactly, but it was something she guarded fiercely in the hyper-competitive, cutthroat environment of emergency medicine. She had fought tooth and nail to get through medical school, utilizing every accommodation she could secure, developing elaborate workarounds, and simply working twice as hard as her peers to read the same material.
But the ED didn't care about workarounds. The ED demanded speed.
She opened the first chart—Mr. Henderson, a complicated presentation of right lower quadrant pain that turned out to be a ruptured appendix. Trinity pulled up her hastily scribbled physical notes. To anyone else, they were standard handwriting which is actually nice compared to other doctors. Though to Trinity, after twelve hours on her feet, the letters actively refused to stay anchored to the page.
Pt pres w/ RLQ pain...
As she tried to type the information, the letters on the screen began their familiar, mocking dance. The 'p's and 'q's, then 'b' and 'd' swapped identities; entire sentences blurred into a grey, unintelligible block of text. The background glow of the screen seemed to pulse, exacerbating the migraine building at the back of her head. She typed a sentence, deleted it, and typed it again. The mental energy required to decode her own notes, translate them into proper medical terminology, and then ensure she was spelling every complex pharmacological term correctly was staggering.
By 10:30 PM, the Pitt had completely emptied out. The night shift had taken over the floor, their fresh voices filtering through the glass partitions. She can even hear Dr. Ellis laughing about something and Dr. Shen's slurping which is not helpful at all, Trinity was still on chart number four.
A wave of profound inadequacy washed over her. As she felt her vision lost focus for a second, feeling nauseous. She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders slumping. 'You're a doctor,' she berated herself silently. 'You can intubate a crashing patient in under thirty seconds, but you can't type a simple progress note.'
Pathetic.
"Are you attempting to meld your forehead with the keyboard, Dr. Santos, or is this a new meditation technique I haven't read about?"
The voice was a low, resonant alto, laced with a familiar, dry warmth. Trinity’s head snapped up. Standing near the elevator it's doors slowly closing behind her, was Dr. Garcia who is leaning slightly on the wall.
Yolanda is a trauma surgeon, a powerhouse who commanded the OR with an intimidating mix of precision and absolute authority, even the ED is not spared when she’s around. She was also, in Trinity’s completely biased opinion, the most breathtakingly beautiful woman in the hospital. Yolanda had dark, expressive eyes that missed absolutely nothing, sharp features softened by a perpetual, knowing smirk, and an aura of competence that made people instinctively step out of her way.
"Dr. Garcia," Trinity stammered, frantically trying to blink the blurriness from her eyes and sitting up straight. "I—no. Just... just finishing up some paperwork."
Yolanda didn't move from where she is, her gaze sweeping over the deserted station, the towering stack of physical files next to Trinity's keyboard, and finally, Trinity's exhausted, pale face. Yolanda was wearing her dark purple scrubs, a faded fleece jacket zipped up to her collar, and a stethoscope slung carelessly around her neck. She looked like she had just come out of a gruelling six-hour bowel resection, yet she somehow still looked immaculate.
"Your shift ended at ten, Dr. Santos," Yolanda noted, stepping near the desk, towering over her figure. Her footsteps were quiet on the tiles. "It's going on eleven. If you keep burning the candle at both ends, the ED is going to consume you whole."
"I know, I know," Trinity sighed, running a hand through her messy, dark hair, pulling at the roots. "It was a heavy shift. A lot of complex presentations. I just got backed up."
Yolanda walked over, pulling up a chair and sitting far closer than professional courtesy strictly dictated. The faint, clean scent of antimicrobial soap and vanilla drifted toward Trinity, making her heart do a completely unprofessional flutter, she looked around a little to see if anyone’s looking.
"Twenty-three incomplete charts is more than 'getting backed up,' Trin," Yolanda said gently, glancing at the number glaring in red at the top of Trinity's screen. "That's drowning."
Trinity stiffened, her defensive walls instantly slamming into place. "I'm fine. I'm just slow at typing. I like to be thorough."
Yolanda didn't argue. Instead, she leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, and studied Trinity's face. The harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital were unforgiving, highlighting the dark circles under Trinity's eyes and the tight lines of stress around her mouth.
"Trinity, look at me," Yolanda said softly.
Reluctantly, Trinity turned her head. Meeting Yolanda's gaze was always a dangerous proposition; the trauma surgeon had a way of looking right through the bullshit and seeing the raw, unvarnished truth beneath.
"You are an exceptional resident," Yolanda began, her tone devoid of its usual teasing edge. "I watched you in Trauma Bay 2 today. The way you stabilized that multi-vehicle MVA before I even got downstairs? Flawless. Your clinical instincts are sharper than most of my attendings."
A flush crept up Trinity's neck at the praise. "Thank you."
"So," Yolanda continued, her voice dropping a fraction, becoming intimate, private. "Why does a brilliant clinician sitting in a chair with a slouch, crying over a keyboard?"
Trinity blinked, startled. She reached up and touched her cheek, realizing with a jolt of horror that a single, rogue tear of sheer frustration had escaped without her permission. She scrubbed it away furiously.
"I'm not crying. It's just screen fatigue," Trinity lied weakly.
Yolanda sighed, a soft, understanding sound. She reached out, her fingers lightly grazing Trinity’s wrist—a fleeting, grounding touch that sent a jolt of electricity straight up Trinity’s arm.
"Trinity," Yolanda murmured. "I know about the dyslexia."
The word hung in the air between them, heavy and suffocating. Trinity froze. The walls of the ED seemed to shrink.
"Who told you?" Trinity demanded, her voice tight, defensive. "Did someone say something? Because my accommodations are supposed to be confidential—"
"No one told me," Yolanda interrupted smoothly, keeping her voice incredibly gentle to counteract Trinity's rising panic. "I observed. I'm a surgeon, Trinity. My job is to notice the details."
Trinity looked away, ashamed. "What details?"
"I noticed that you never read aloud during grand rounds unless you've memorized the case beforehand," Yolanda said, ticking the points off on her fingers. "I saw that when you take handoff, you draw little symbols next to the patient's names instead of writing out the full history. I notice that you mix up left and right under pressure unless you tap your watch first. And I know that every single shift, you are the last resident to leave, staring at a screen like it's a loaded gun."
Trinity swallowed hard, the fight draining out of her, leaving only a hollow exhaustion. "It's that obvious?"
"Only to someone who spends entirely too much time watching you, and I may have kept the little note you made where the letter b became d" Yolanda replied smoothly, a faint smirk playing on her lips.
Trinity's head snapped back around, her eyes wide. 'Did she just say what I think she said?'
But Yolanda was already moving on, all business again. She rolled her chair closer, so their knees were practically touching. "Why didn't you ask for the dictation software? The hospital provides it for residents with documented learning disabilities."
"Because it makes noise," Trinity whispered, the truth finally spilling out. "If I use the voice-to-text here, everyone hears me charting. They hear me stumbling over words. They hear me second-guessing the spelling of 'ceftriaxone'. In a place like this, weakness is blood in the water. If the Robby think I can't read a chart, he won't trust me to cut."
Yolanda’s expression softened into something incredibly tender. She reached out again, and this time, she didn't just brush Trinity's wrist. She took Trinity's hand in hers, giving it a firm, reassuring squeeze. Her skin was warm, her fingers slightly calloused from years in the operating room.
"Trinity, having a brain that processes information unlike others is not a weakness. It's just a different way of doing things," Yolanda said firmly. "But exhausting yourself to the point of collapse to hide it? That is going to hurt you. And I won't let you hurt yourself."
Trinity looked down at their joined hands. The sheer relief of being seen, of not having to hide, was overwhelming. "I'm just so tired, Yolanda," she confessed, dropping the formalities. "I look at these letters and they just... they don't mean anything. It's like trying to translate ancient Greek while running a marathon."
"I know," Yolanda said softly. She let go of Trinity's hand, though Trinity immediately missed the warmth, and reached for the stack of messy, handwritten notes. "So, we're going to change the ways."
"What are you doing?"
"I am going to be your scribe," Yolanda announced, pulling the keyboard toward her.
Trinity gaped at her. "Yolanda, you are a literal trauma surgeon. You've been here since six in the morning. You can't stay and do a second-year resident's scut work."
"Watch me," Yolanda countered, her fingers resting lightly on the home keys. "You are going to read your handwriting and interpret your little symbols, whatever works for you and you are going to dictate the details to me. I will type. I type hundred and twenty words a minute. We'll knock these out in an hour."
"I can't ask you to do that."
"You didn't ask. I volunteered," Yolanda said, turning her head to give Trinity a look that brooked no argument. It was the same look she gave when demanding a scalpel in the OR. "Now. Mr. Henderson. Ruptured appy. Give me the history of present illness. Go."
Trinity hesitated, her heart swelling with an emotion that was dangerously close to awe. She looked at Yolanda, at the sharp profile illuminated by the monitor, the tired but determined set of her jaw.
"Okay," Trinity breathed. She picked up her notes. Freed from the cognitive load of having to spell and format, her brilliant medical mind easily took over. "Patient is a 45-year-old male presenting with a two-day history of progressively worsening abdominal pain, initially periumbilical, migrating to the right lower quadrant..."
For the next forty-five minutes, the only sounds in the West station were Trinity's voice, smooth and confident, and the rapid, sound clatter of Yolanda's fingers flying across the keyboard.
It was a revelation. With Yolanda handling the typing of the chart, Trinity could actually focus on the medicine. She didn't have to pause to remember if 'arrhythmia' had two 'r's or two 'm's. She didn't have to fight the visual snow on the screen. She just talked, and Yolanda, brilliant, capable Yolanda, translated it perfectly into the electronic medical record.
As they worked, a comfortable rhythm developed between them. Yolanda would occasionally pause to ask a clarifying question, her medical expertise complementing Trinity's initial assessments perfectly.
"Wait, on the third patient, the COPD exacerbation," Yolanda interrupted, glancing at Trinity. "Did you start him on BiPAP or just a high-flow nasal cannula?"
"BiPAP," Trinity answered immediately. "His CO2 was climbing, and he was using accessory muscles. I didn't want to risk him tiring out before the steroids kicked in."
Yolanda smiled, a genuine, warm expression that made her dark eyes crinkle at the corners. "Good call, Dr. Santos. Very good call."
Trinity felt a blush warm her cheeks again, and this time she didn't try to hide it.
By the time they reached the final chart, the tension in Trinity's shoulders had completely melted away. The crushing weight that had been sitting on her chest for the whole day was gone.
"And... sign," Yolanda said, hitting the enter key with a satisfying click.
"Twenty-three charts, completed, signed, and legally airtight." She pushed the keyboard away and stretched her arms over her head, her spine popping audibly. Trinity watched the movement, admiring the flex of the surgeon's muscles beneath the thin fabric of her scrubs.
"I don't know how to thank you," Trinity said earnestly, turning her chair to fully face Yolanda. "Seriously. You just saved me at least three hours of misery."
Yolanda lowered her arms and leaned in, resting her chin on her hand, gazing at Trinity with an expression that was suddenly incredibly soft. The professional distance was gone, replaced by something much heavier, much more electric.
"You can thank me by promising you won't do this to yourself anymore," Yolanda said, her voice dropping to a low murmur. "If you need help, you ask for it, I bet your Huckleberry won't mind and if you need a scribe..." She paused, a slow, devastating smile spreading across her lips. "...you know where to find me."
Trinity swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. The space between them felt incredibly small. She could see the faint smattering of freckles across the bridge of Yolanda's nose, could smell that intoxicating blend of vanilla and hospital soap.
"A trauma surgeon scribe is a pretty expensive use of hospital resources," Trinity joked, her voice slightly breathless.
"I'd argue it's an investment in one of our most promising young doctors," Yolanda countered smoothly. She reached out, and this time, she didn't touch Trinity's hand or wrist. She reached up and gently tucked a stray, dark curl behind Trinity's ear.
The touch was feather-light, but it sent a shockwave straight to Trinity's core. She froze, her breath catching in her throat, her eyes locked onto Yolanda's.
Yolanda let her hand linger for a fraction of a second against the line of Trinity's jaw before slowly pulling away. The air in the room felt thick, charged with unsaid words and suddenly obvious feelings.
"Come on," Yolanda said, standing up and grabbing her fleece jacket from the back of the chair. "I'm starving, and you look like you're about to fall asleep sitting up. There's a diner a few blocks from here that makes terrible coffee but incredible blueberry pancakes. My treat."
Trinity stood up, her legs feeling slightly unsteady—and not just from the twelve-hour shift. She looked at the blank computer screen, the red numbers replaced by a glorious, empty inbox, and then looked back at Yolanda, who was waiting by the door, watching her with that soft, patient smile.
For the first time in months, Trinity didn't feel the crushing weight of her own brain holding her back. She just felt light.
"Blueberry pancakes sound perfect," Trinity smiled, grabbing her own jacket and following Yolanda out of the ED. She ran after her lacing their hands together leaving the quiet glow of the monitors behind them, the chaotic noise of the ED fading into the background of the Pittsburgh night.