Chapter Text
Jack Abbot had killed men before, which was not a particularly unusual fact among former Army physicians. The unusual part was that some of them had been his patients.
For years, he had survived by being precise about the distinction between an allegation and a confession. Allegedly, 3 soldiers and 1 civilian contractor accused of crimes against women had deteriorated unexpectedly while under Jack’s care overseas. Allegedly, medication records were incomplete in most of these instances, minus in the case of the contractor, in which his medical records had unfortunately been destroyed in a fire. Allegedly, 1 man who arrived with a survivable gunshot wound developed an airway obstruction while Jack was alone with him. This was the cost of war; it produced bad charts, dead witnesses, and enough moral confusion to hide almost anything.
Jack had buried the allegations beneath medals, an honorable discharge, 2 decades of emergency medicine, and a reputation for saving the patients everyone else thought were already dead.
Then Trent Norris, Chief Executive Officer of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, put a file on his desk and asked why 4 violent men had died during four of his shifts.
“Statistical clustering,” Jack shrugged.
Trent sat across from him in the empty administrative office, his gray suit immaculate at 6:30 in the morning while Jack still had someone else’s blood drying along his forearm. “That is an impressive phrase. Did the Army teach it to you, or did your attorney?”
“Neither. I went to medical school.” Jack thumbed open the file without bothering to look down. “People die around physicians. It’s 1 of the profession’s weaker recruiting points.”
“These men did not merely die around you, Dr. Abbot. They died after being accused of rape, domestic violence, or trafficking women. In 2 cases, nurses documented that you asked to be left alone with them.”
Jack smiled because Trent expected fear, and he would rather give him disrespect. “If you’re asking whether I murdered patients in Afghanistan, this conversation should probably include legal counsel and much worse coffee.”
“I’m not asking. Someone else already did.” Trent leaned forward. “As you are aware, the hospital received an anonymous complaint and now have been contacted by an investigator from the Army. The board of directors as well as the compliance team will investigate. I am giving you a chance to explain before they contact Dr. Mohan.”
Samira’s name changed the temperature of the room. Trent noticed, which, of course he did. Trent could miss 12-hour waits, unsafe staffing ratios, and the entire emotional lives of the people keeping his hospital functional, but interpersonal weakness entered his field of vision like contrast dye.
“Why would they contact Samira?” Jack asked, failing to keep the defensiveness out of his voice.
“Because the complaint also alleges you have developed an inappropriate relationship with a fellow enlisted resident physician and may present a danger to Dr. Mohan.”
Jack scoffed, shifting in his chair to relieve the pressure that was building in his residual limb. “That is absurd.”
“Is it?” Trent smirked. He noted Jack’s use of Dr. Mohan’s first name and made a mental note to mention it to the investigator.
Yes. No. Not in the way he meant.
Jack stood. “If you tell Samira an anonymous coward thinks I killed rapists 20 years ago, you are not protecting her. You are using her to pressure me.”
“If the allegations are false, pressure should not concern you.” Trent collected the pages into a neat stack. “You should also be aware that Dr. Robinavich has seen the complaint.”
That landed harder.
“Robby knows?” Jack tried to keep the stammer out of his voice but failed.
“He was copied yesterday. He has not answered my calls.” Trent paused at the door. “Perhaps he is deciding whether your friendship matters more than his reputation as chief. I suggest you do the same calculation before noon.”
Jack waited until he left before calling Robby, holding his breath before cursing as his call went straight to voicemail. He automatically dialed again, trying to ignore the anxious flutter building in his gut. Still no answer, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad sign.
Right?
“Ya know, if you glare at the phone any harder, it can develop a pressure ulcer,” Dana chuckled from the doorway. Jack pretended to grab a file off the rack and attempted to look busy.
“I’m just admiring Apple’s latest technology.”
“You hate technology. You said three days ago you were going to start using a flip phone again.”
“I contain multitudes, Dana.”
“And most of yours need medication.” Dana handed him the tablet. “Your replacement is here, and before you ask, no, you cannot stay. You worked 14 hours, insulted 2 consultants, and stapled a man’s scalp while eating yogurt. Go home.”
Jack looked through the glass toward the emergency department. Samira stood beside Trauma 3 arguing with Robby.
So Robby was apparently available for berating the future of emergency medicine, just not Jack’s phone calls.
“You ordered the CT without discussing it,” Robby was arguing, his raised voice the cue for Jack to move closer to them.
Samira squared her shoulders and reached for the tubing of her stethoscope; a sign she was centering herself before responding. “I discussed it with the patient, and that’s why I believed it was a necessary part of their treatment plan.”
“The patient does not approve resource allocation or treatment plans.”
“No, she just owns the body containing the possible subarachnoid hemorrhage,” Samira responded.
Robby crossed his arms, his nostrils flaring in a way that indicated to Jack he was not going to back down. “Her neurologic exam was normal. She has a migraine history. We have 32 patients waiting and 1 CT scanner down.”
“The patient also said this is the worst headache of her life, she collapsed during sex, and her mother died from a ruptured aneurysm at 41. If you want me to cancel it, put your name on the order.”
The challenge hung between them like smoke from dueling pistols. Samira had always resisted the bureaucratic math of emergency medicine. Robby saw 32 patients and 1 scanner. Samira saw 1 woman everyone had decided was safe because she remained alive and only mildly symptomatic. Both were right often enough to make their relationship unbearable.
Robby glanced at Jack. Something moved across his face and Jack couldn’t discern if it was recognition, guilt, or simple annoyance, then disappeared.
“Keep the CT order,” Robby told Samira. “But if it is negative, you own the 4-hour delay you just created.”
“If it is positive, do I get a gold star?” Samira’s eyes had the tired look of a woman who was at the end of a prizefight in which there would be no real winner.
“You get to keep your fucking job.”
“Thank you, Robby. Your motivational style is why people fake family emergencies to get out of day shift.”
Robby walked away, muttering something under his breath that was most certainly not approved by HR. Samira took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of her nose before she spotted Jack and walked towards him. “Good morning, Dr. Abbot. Your best friend is being a dick today.”
“Just today? That is his baseline neurologic status.”
“He called me Slow-Mo in front of the patient.” Samira faltered a bit as she replayed the scene in her head. That nickname had been the source of torment for her for years, all thanks to Robby.
“Well, did you move slowly?”
She stared at Jack, trying to read his face. “I was gathering critical patient data.”
“Gather it when Robby isn’t within earshot. I know how hard he is on you, but like I’ve told you before, the best course of action is to not include him in it.”
Jack gently brought his hand to her shoulder before she could head back to her patients, and Samira stopped; her anger with Robby softening when she saw the worn look on Jack’s face.
“What happened?” she asked, her brow furrowed at what was clearly a look of anxiety on Jack’s face.
“Nothing.”
“Your nothing is causing your forehead veins to bulge in a very concerning manner.”
Jack scratched his beard and tried to decide how much to share with Samira.
“Robby isn’t answering my calls.”
“He’s standing 20 feet away, just go up to him if you need something.”
“Thank you, Samira. This is why you were valedictorian at Yale.”
She looked from Jack to Robby. “Did you two fight? Why wouldn’t he take your calls?”
“I-I’m not sure. But once he decides to stop ignoring me, I’ll talk to him about how he spoke to you.”
Before Samira could ask more, Dr. Owen Price stepped out of Trauma 3 holding the scan order. He was 6 weeks into a 3-month locum contract from Allegheny and possessed the polished confidence of a man who had never been forced to wonder whether people would forget his face.
“Dr. Mohan was right,” Dr. Price announced, “small subarachnoid. Neurosurgery is coming down.”
Samira’s satisfaction was immediate. “I would like my gold star sticker to be a sparkly one.”
Robby heard her from the desk and grumbled something incoherent. “I said you could keep your fucking job. Don’t get greedy.”
Price smiled at Samira, instantly causing multiple muscles in Jack’s jaw to clench. “Let me buy you breakfast to celebrate making the Chief look stupid.”
“I can hear you,” Robby drolled.
“That was part of the celebration,” Dr. Price replied.
Samira laughed.
Jack rolled his eyes so hard it actually hurt, which would have been more persuasive if Jack had not disliked Price for the entire 6 weeks he had worked at PTMC. Price arrived on nights during a thunderstorm with an expensive raincoat, perfect hair, and the irritating habit of remembering everyone’s coffee order. By his second shift, he knew Dana drank hers black, Mel wanted oat milk but would accept anything during a trauma activation, and Samira preferred tea until 3:00 a.m., when exhaustion lowered her standards enough to permit coffee with obscene amounts of cream.
Jack watched Owen place a cup beside her workstation without asking.
You smile because he remembered. It is a small thing, a normal thing. I remember too. I remember you hate lids with raised drinking tabs because they touch your upper lip. I remember you switch to decaf when your hands begin trembling, though you lie and blame the trauma bay temperature. I remember the first time I ran into you at the CCME conference in Vegas 6 years ago when I was on leave. I remember you had an intern's badge on, and you were so earnest as you tried to get the attention of the editor of the Harvard Medical Journal to discuss a piece about racial inequality. I remember going to the front desk and telling them that I needed to change the billing address on your hotel room, and could they be so kind as to remind me what address was on file? I remember going to bed that night and looking you up. I remember everything, Mira. The difference is he wants credit for it.
“You’re staring,” Dana snapped, whacking Jack’s hip with her clipboard. Jack scowled and took a look at the digital board. “I’m supervising.”
“Unless the coffee is a credentialed physician capable of seeing patients, you’re staring.”
“Price is distracting a resident,” Jack huffed
“Price is giving Mohan caffeine. You once brought her an entire portable espresso machine because she said the break-room coffee tasted like boiled litigation.”
“That was for the department.”
Dana looked across the desk at the machine, which had SAMIRA’S—TOUCH AND DIE written on blue tape. “Your commitment to shared resources is moving.”
During his second week at PTMC, Dr. Price joined the team at Donovan’s after a particularly grueling shift. Samira had sat between Mel and Jack until Jack excused himself to answer a call from the SWAT unit. When he returned, Dr. Price occupied his chair and had his arm draped along the booth behind Samira. There were plenty of available seats. Jack counted 4 of them and tried not to give into his urge to snap Dr. Price’s neck.
You have not moved away. That does not mean you want him. It means you are polite. You stay too long with frightened patients and men who mistake access for intimacy. You give everyone time to prove themselves. I should admire that. I do admire it. I also want to break his wrist.
Jack had taken a chair from another table and placed it so close to Samira’s knee that she had to back away from the table so he could fit.
“Subtle,” she murmured, “real subtle Jack.”
He tried to play it off and took a swig of his old fashioned. “I needed lumbar support.”
“You selected a backless stool.”
“The lumbar support is of the emotional kind.”
Dr. Price looked between them, his brain trying to categorize their relationship dynamic as he evaluated it in real time. “How long have you two been together?”
“We’re not,” Samira answered too quickly.
Jack drank his cocktail and tried not to read too much into her words. “She rejected me because I lack social skills.”
“There was no rejection to be done because you are my friend and you are the one who has made it very clear that’s all we are.”
“That’s a very diplomatic answer,” Jack chuckled.
Dr. Price smiled at Samira, the lecherous look on his face igniting a roar in Jack’s ears. “Good. I was worried there was a hospital policy issue.”
Jack set his glass down. “There is. Locums are prohibited from dating anyone with standards.”
Samira kicked his prosthetic beneath the table and rolled her eyes. Jack did not register the kick, which prompted her to do it again against his intact shin.
“Ow! What was that for?” Jack mocked indignation, but secretly reveled in any physical contact from Samira.
“The first one was a warning, Abbot.”
“Are you aware that leg is made of titanium and I don’t have sensation there?”
“Then you can just imagine the pain,” Samira shrugged.
Dr. Price laughed, but the look he gave Jack was one of assessment. There was nothing more paleolithic than male competition; men were hardwired to recognize rivalry long before women ever agreed to participate in it. Later that night, Jack ended up driving Samira back to the hospital to pick up her car, the conversation with Price long forgotten. He didn’t realize until after he’d watched her pull away that the black scrunchie that she had a habit of clipping her hospital ID badge to was sitting on the passenger seat of his car.
Jack unclipped the badge from the hair tie and studied the photo. It was an old picture from the day of her onboarding during her first year. In it, she looked so much younger; her cheeks still slightly soft and her hair shorter than now, but it was her eyes that stuck out to Jack. They still held the bright optimism that they had the night he first saw her in that hotel bar, bereft of the wariness of present day.
He idly toyed with the scrunchie and brought it to his nose; the smell of Samira’s woodsy shampoo filling his senses and causing his pants to tighten. Jack looked around the empty parking structure to ensure there were no passersby before pulling his hardened length out. Tangling her scrunchie around his fingers, Jack spit into his palm and stared at the ID badge as he stroked himself, locking eyes with the photo of Samira. He imagined that Samira in the picture; the hopeful and eager one who walked into PTMC ready to change the world, on her knees with her lips around him in gratitude for seeing the potential in her that no one else did.
Jack felt himself getting harder and harder as he pictured Samira in the present day, curls wild as he fucked her in front of Price who was left cucked while he watched Samira come undone on Jack’s cock. He came hard at the thought, ropes of cum coating his hand and the scrunchie while he fantasized about Price watching Jack pleasure Samira in a way he’d never be capable of. His chest heaved in the quiet aftermath of his climax, and he tucked himself back into his pants before wiping his hands off with the scrunchie, grabbing his phone to shoot off a quick text message to Samira.
Hey, your scrunchie and ID badge must have fallen out when you got out of the car. I’ve got them in my bag and will give them to you tomorrow–sorry, your scrunchie got a little damp in a puddle.
By week 3, Dr. Price began finding mundane reasons to work beside Samira. He asked her opinion on even the most basic of cases and listened to the answers like an acolyte. He defended her a little too hard when a surgical resident jokingly called her slow. He’d even brought lunch from the Indian restaurant near his AirBnB and managed not to describe naan as bread, a threshold so low Samira resented appreciating it.
Jack responded to the clear encroachment of his territory by becoming clinically unbearable.
He corrected Price’s central-line setup in front of 2 medical students and reassigned him to chairs from Samira’s pod during a complicated overdose. His new favorite hobby became reviewing Dr. Price’s charts with a precision normally reserved for war-crime tribunals.
“You circled my use of approximately,” Dr. Price remarked, holding up a printed note.
“Because the patient’s temperature was 102.4. There’s nothing approximate about that.”
Dr. Price let out a huff of frustration and tossed the chart back onto the desk. “It’s narrative medicine.”
“It’s billable fiction,” Jack shrugged.
Robby had later caught Jack rewriting the assignment board at 4:00 a.m. “You moved Dr. Price to Pod A.”
“Pod A needs an attending.”
“Samira is in Pod C.”
Jack waved him off as he entered a lab order into his tablet. “Thank you for locating her.”
“And you also moved yourself to Pod C,” Robby cautioned.
“It’s an operational necessity. C is down two residents because Nazely and Parker are both out sick today. We need extra bodies there.”
Robby sighed deeply and leaned against the desk, dropping his voice to avoid the gossip mongers from overhearing them. “You have spent 20 years mocking men who make women responsible for their unexpressed feelings, only to find yourself in some sort of medieval duel for Samira’s honor. Congratulations on becoming fodder for the workplace conduct training.”
“I don’t have feelings,“ Jack hissed, “and do I need to remind you about the very beautiful attending at UW who was your chief resident here and, if I recall correctly, your girlfriend for 3 years?”
Robby’s face faltered at the mention of Heather Collins and he shook his head. “Then whatever is happening to your face every time Dr. Price steps into this ED requires neurology. Look, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but if you care for her in a way that is not just as a coworker, I think you should tell her.”
Jack looked across the department. Dr. Price stood close to Samira while she sutured a teenager’s eyebrow. Samira was telling the boy a story, probably embarrassing, designed to keep him from noticing the needle. Dr. Price watched her rather than the procedure, wearing a dopey expression far too devotional for the hospital.
He sees it too. The thing people misunderstand as softness. You enter pain instead of standing outside it. Of course he wants you. Everyone should want you. I simply object to them acting on it.
“She’s a resident,” Jack said, “ that’s not happening.” At least that’s what I try to tell myself so I behave.
“She’s 34 years old and 6 months from graduation,” Robby contended.
“I supervise her. Well, I guess not technically anymore, but I did while you were gone.”
“You also spend every free evening at her apartment assembling furniture that she could pay a TaskRabbit to build, you’re each other’s emergency contacts, and need I remind you that you put her on your auto insurance?”
“She owns an electric screwdriver and no handyman skills; we did the emergency contact update because her mother was going to be halfway across the world on a cruise ship and lord knows my family wouldn’t walk across the street if I got into an accident, let alone get on a plane. Plus, the insurance thing was because I have USAA and it’s $100 cheaper per month than what she had.”
Robby’s expression softened. “Jack, either tell her, or let her meet someone who will.”
The advice should have sounded kind, but instead, Jack heard an order to prepare to lose her. “I didn’t ask for relationship coaching.”
“You never do. That way every disappointment can remain somebody else’s decision.”
Jack walked away, Robby’s words staying with him even as he got into bed that evening.
Week 4 brought a pediatric drowning, a tough case in which a child arrived blue and pulseless after 18 minutes beneath the water. Dr. Price ran the code while Samira stood with the boy’s mother. Jack intubated while Robby managed medications; Mel performed compressions till her arms went numb, and the room moved with the desperate choreography of people attempting to reverse inevitability.
Finally, they got a pulse.
After the child left for the PICU, Samira disappeared into the stairwell. Jack found her sitting 2 floors above the emergency department with blood on her shoe and the mother’s screams still playing on a loop in her ears.
Unfortunately, Dr. Price had found her first.
He sat 1 step below Samira, leaving space between them, and said nothing as Samira’s eyes wouldn’t stop tearing up. It was exactly the correct thing to do for a colleague, but Jack knew Price wasn’t a man who did things without expecting something in return; he remained behind the door long enough to catch Samira leaning her shoulder against Dr. Price’s.
He is being decent. How inconsiderate. Villains are easier when they behave consistently.
Jack went back downstairs before either of them saw him, his chest tight in a way it hadn’t been since he was in Fallujah. Later, Samira found him cleaning an already clean laryngoscope, and leaned against the wall while she took him in. “You vanished.”
“I was working,” Jack clipped, “Environmental is backed up with that stabbing in Trauma 2, so I thought I’d help out in here.”
“The patient is doing well. I called up to the PICU and they’ve got him sitting up.”
“That’s great. Could have gone a lot of different ways.”
Samira moved further into the room and stood beside him. “Dr. Price stayed with me. I kinda lost it in the stairwell.”
“That was nice of him.”
“You just said nice of him the way Santos says ‘educational opportunity’ before humiliating Whitaker.”
Jack placed the scope in the drawer. “Would you prefer I challenge him to a duel?”
“I would prefer you tell me why you act like you want me until someone else does.” Samira stared at him, unblinking and for one dangerous second, honesty rose up into Jack’s throat.
Tell her. Say you think about her when you wake and when you cannot sleep. Say you’d never planned to come back to Pittsburgh, that it had become a mausoleum to you and you’d done everything but abandon your house until you found out she was matched to PTMC. Say Beth’s side of the couch remained empty for 5 years until Mira sat there 1 night eating noodles and complaining about hospital parking, and afterward empty meant her absence instead. Say it before Dr. Price does.
“You’re tired,” Jack said, “it’s got you not thinking clearly.”
Samira’s mouth closed and she swallowed to compose herself. “Right.”
She left him with the clean equipment and a mind at war with his common sense.
During week 5, Dr. Price asked Samira to a museum and much to Jack’s chagrin, she accepted. He learned this information from Santos, who announced it while he was reducing a shoulder and trying not to dislocate his own in the process.
“Your girlfriend is dating the locum,” Santos stated, causing the patient to look between the two of them before speaking up. “Should I come back? Or is there another doctor who is free?”
“Your shoulder is dislocated,” Jack replied, “and trust me, you don’t want another doctor to do this.”
“Don’t worry sir, she’s not his girlfriend,” Mel added in a manner trademarked to her typical lack of social cues, “she’s just a colleague that he’s clearly been harboring deeply unrequited feelings for.”
Jack pulled the shoulder into place harder than necessary, causing the patient to scream and surely drop his patient satisfaction scores into the toilet for the quarter.
“Good reduction,” Santos remarked, “poor emotional regulation.”
The museum date went regrettably well. Samira posted no photographs, but of course Dr. Price did. Jack found them at 1:13 a.m. while sitting in his car outside her building, but he maintained that it was not stalking. He had driven Samira home after their shift two days after The Date and Jack had waited because he’d noticed a man had been circling the block when they arrived. Sure, the man left 40 minutes ago, but vigilance did not become stalking merely because the threat went home.
Dr. Price’s Instagram showed Samira in front of a Rothko, arms folded, head tilted. The caption read: ‘Teaching Slo-Mo to appreciate moving quickly.’
Jack stared at the image until the joke became an insult and the insult became evidence.
He does not understand the name or its cruel origins. He did not see you diagnose the sickle-cell crisis everyone dismissed. He was not there when you sat on the floor with a dying woman because she was afraid to be alone. Slow is what people call care when it inconveniences them. He has not earned the right.
He typed a comment, deleted it, typed another, then deleted the app entirely.
What kind of self-respecting man has an Instagram anyway? Low testosterone prick.
Just then, Samira knocked on his passenger window, causing Jack to nearly draw the pistol beneath his jacket. She opened the door and climbed in, a sly grin on her face. “Are you surveilling my apartment, Dr. Abbot?”
“I saw a suspicious vehicle,” he smiled. The smell of her perfume always seemed more intense in close quarters.
Samira’s laugh almost shook the car. “That ‘suspicious vehicle’ belongs to Mrs. Elkin’s grandson. He delivers marijuana because she has glaucoma and refuses to pay dispensary prices.”
“Still illegal,” Jack clipped.
“So is loitering in a loading zone.” Samira looked at him as she leaned against the passenger window. “You deleted your Instagram.”
Jack scoffed. “Real men don’t use social media.”
“You saw Owen’s post.”
“Oh, now he’s Owen now? And no, I didn’t.”
“Jack, you liked it before deleting your account,” Samira tilted her head, trying to get Jack to make eye contact with her.
Jack closed his eyes. “Technology is a trap. I don’t want to know how you know I liked that, but I’m going to guess that any man who wears that much hairspray is probably monitoring his likes.”
Samira laughed. “You and I didn’t get a chance to recap, but the date was actually really good.”
“I’m thrilled,” Jack drolled.
“You look like a constipated old man.”
“My joy is on the inside, Samira, and I’m as regular as the postal service, FYI.”
She tucked a leg beneath herself as she traced the stitching on the car seat. “He asked whether I wanted to see him again.”
Jack looked through the windshield. “Do you?”
“Maybe.” Samira mashed her lip between her teeth and was grateful that Jack couldn’t see the heat rising in her cheeks.
The answer hurt with embarrassing physicality.
Say no. Not because he is wrong for you. Because I am selfish and tired and I have already survived losing the great love of my life. I did not expect another. I resent you for becoming one without permission.
“Then you should,” Jack shrugged, his expression stony.
Samira studied his profile. “Sometimes I think you would help plan my wedding just to avoid admitting you wanted to object.”
“I look good in formal wear.”
She got out of the car without another word, leaving Jack to sit and stew for another hour before he drove home.
Week 6 ended with Jack sitting in Trent’s office with the file on his desk and Dr. Price asking Samira to breakfast.
Jack didn’t dislike him because Price was handsome, though he was, in an aggressively preppy way. It wasn’t because Samira now touched his arm while laughing the same way she did Jack’s, though she did. Jack disliked him because his instincts became pattern recognition, and every pattern in Owen Price told him the man had spent his life learning how much charm could purchase before anyone examined the receipt.
“What do you say, Dr. Mohan. Breakfast?” Dr. Price asked again.
Samira looked at Jack for one fraction of a second before responding. “Sure.”
You.
Jack had done enough therapy to recognize when his mind began narrating like an unstable journal, and not enough therapy to stop it. You said yes because you wanted breakfast. You did not say yes to test me. You did not arrange your romantic life around whether a 49-year-old widower finally developed courage.
Unfortunately, knowing this did nothing useful, nor did it stop it from continuing.
“Mohan,” Jack interrupted, “before you leave, I need your procedure log from last month.”
Samira’s brows knit together in confusion. “It’s already in your inbox.”
“Sorry, but I need the corrected version.” Jack made no attempts to smooth his curt tone.
“That is the corrected version.”
“Then I need it corrected better; it’s missing a ton of details from the 8th-14th.”
Samira’s eyes narrowed at Jack’s sudden need for administrative busywork and Dr. Price looked delighted at the tiny fissure in the relationship before him. From behind Jack, Dana made a choking sound behind the desk, causing him to grab a file off the rack and glare at her. “You know what—go enjoy your breakfast and promise me you’ll eat something with fiber. Statistically, people who date locums need stronger gastrointestinal health.”
Dr. Price put a hand at Samira’s back as they walked away, and everyone within a 10 foot radius could feel the heat emanating from Jack’s body as he watched them. He took a few calming breaths while he made a lap around the ED, peaking into rooms to try and locate Robby. When he came up empty, he tried calling him again.
Straight to voicemail.
Fuck.
Later at home, Jack showered and opened the file Trent had given him. The complaint included dates, names, and details never released publicly; whoever filed it had access to sealed Army investigative records. Jack prayed Robby would recognize this for the witchhunt it was, that he’d see how this was nonsense constructed from tissue paper thin evidence.
He decided to call him again, then two more times, each one resulting in another voicemail that went unreturned. Finally, he decided to try texting (Trent says you saw the complaint. Call me before you do anything,) hoping that perhaps Robby was just with back to back patients and not deciding to throw away decades of friendship.
Jack thought maybe it was his phone that was being weird, so he turned it off and on, hoping it would restart with missed calls from Robby. Instead, his text message showed as delivered, then read.
Robby still had not answered.
Across town, Dr. Price took Samira to a diner in the Strip District and ordered her coffee before she sat down. She discovered that he was funny when he wasn’t trying to be impressive. He made her laugh about surgical residents, admitted he once fainted during a cadaver lab, and asked questions about her research without immediately trying to mansplain it back to her. For 20 minutes, Samira considered the possibility that everyone at the Pitt had become so dysfunctional that they’d misread Dr. Price entirely. He was actually an ordinary, nice guy.
“So, you and Abbot,” Dr. Price asked eventually. “Is that …something?”
There it was. Ordinary and nice had made a respectable effort.
“We’re friends,” Samira dismissed, uninterested in continuing the discussion. She was generally fine with having to explain her unique relationship with Jack to outsiders; she understood how it looked and was happy to clarify, but this was the second time Price had attempted to dig beneath the surface level explanation she’d provided and Samira prickled at the inquisition.
Dr. Price raised his eyebrows higher than she thought was possible with the amount of obvious Botox he had. “He doesn’t look at you like a friend.”
“How does he look at me?”
“Like you’re the center of his solar system.”
Samira took a drink of coffee to hide her reaction. “Jack looks at everyone like that. He’s got military grade eye contact down to a science.”
“He hates me.”
“Jack hates most people. I was present when he called a pediatric oncologist a sentient boat shoe,” Samira quipped.
Dr. Price laughed. “I like you.”
The directness surprised her and for a second, Samira didn’t know how to respond. “You barely know me.”
“That is generally where liking someone starts.” He reached across the table and Samira let him take her hand.
Outside the diner, down in the furthest corner spot of the parking lot, inside Jack’s parked SUV, something old and violent opened its eyes. It had taken some digging and an envelope of cash to his old friend Grant at the county, but Jack had found Price’s malpractice settlements, a withdrawn protection order, and photographs of an ex-girlfriend with bruising that his attorney described as ‘unrelated.’ Jack had told himself he came to the diner to warn Samira and keep an eye on things. He had told himself she deserved to read the information for herself before allowing Price to touch her.
Then he watched her allow it.
Jack’s phone rang, snapping him out of his haze. He was elated before he realized it was Trent, not Robby calling him.
“Robby still hasn’t answered you, has he?” Trent couldn’t hide the glee from his voice.
Jack kept his eyes locked on the diner. “How would you know that?”
“Because he called me. Robby has informed me that he believes the allegations require formal review and that he will be participating in the investigation. He also expressed concern about your relationship with Dr. Mohan.”
The betrayal landed cleanly enough to feel like a bullet through Jack’s gut.
“Put him on.”
“Dr. Abbot, that will not be happening,” Trent’s voice sharpened. “You have until noon today to recuse yourself from Dr. Mohan’s supervisory team and disclose the investigation to her yourself. After that, I will.”
“Stay away from her,“ Jack growled.
“That sounded like a threat.”
“Then your listening comprehension remains excellent.”
Trent hung up and Jack immediately felt his composure evaporate. Through the diner glass, Price said something that made Samira tip her head back and laugh. Jack could obviously not hear the joke, but he didn’t need to in order to know it wasn’t deserving of her laugh. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Samira was better than this.
You laugh with your whole face. That is how I knew the first time. Other people smile like they are negotiating, but you laugh like joy has caught you off guard. He did not earn that laugh, Mira. He ordered pancakes and remembered your coffee. Any moderately trained golden retriever could accomplish half of that.
The clock on the dashboard read 9:31a.m. Trent had given him until noon, which sounded generous until he began listing everything required before then: keep Samira away from Trent, find Robby, determine what Robby knew, get Robby to remember the fact they were best friends, move Dr. Price out of Samira's orbit without revealing the surveillance, and decide whether the Army complaint could be contained through ordinary professional channels.
Jack called Robby again. The call went to voicemail after 1 ring and Jack couldn’t help the loud curse that escaped his lips. “If you're ignoring me because Trent told you to, congratulations, you have finally become an administrator. If you're ignoring me because you think I killed those men, call me back and ask me directly. If you're ignoring me because you're angry about how I’ve been with Samira, get in line.” He paused, watching Price refill Samira's coffee while she twirled a curl between her fingers. “Call me, Robby. Please call.”
He ended the message and immediately hated the final 2 words. They had sounded too much like a plea and the desperate Hail Mary of a man on the brink of losing everything. Inside the diner, Jack almost missed Samira reaching into her work bag and pulling out a manila folder and opening it up on the table.
Robby had known him for over 2 decades. He had seen Jack arrive at work on a prosthetic socket rubbed bloody, watched him intubate a child while his own fever climbed past 103, and once dragged him cursing into a supply room after Jack tried to fight a patient’s father for calling a 15-year-old rape victim a liar. Robby had been furious then too. He had shoved Jack against a shelf of saline and told him that wanting to hurt a bad man was not the same thing as helping the woman he had hurt. Jack had remembered the sentence; he had simply never agreed.
You know me, Robby. That was the deal. Everyone else could believe the uniform, the jokes, the competence. You were supposed to know what stood behind them and remain anyway. Friendship is just another word people use for conditional loyalty, apparently. ‘Terms and conditions apply. Void where morally inconvenient.’
He absentmindedly scrolled to his message thread with Samira and reread a discussion of theirs from two weeks ago. Dr. Price asked me to dinner; just as colleagues, because he wants to write a piece with me and Santos about a case. Are you going to behave like a normal coworker about it?
Jack had answered: Define normal.
She had replied: No felonies, surveillance, or unsolicited background checks.
He had committed only 2 of the 3 at that point.
The dinner had been at a restaurant near Shadyside where Dr. Price knew the owner, the chef, and apparently every attractive person under 40. Jack knew because he had sat in the bar wearing a baseball cap, an item that made him feel both ridiculous and invisible, despite accomplishing neither. Samira, of course, had noticed him before the appetizers.
She excused herself, crossed the room, and slid onto the stool beside him. “Are you having a medical emergency?”
“No.” Jack permitted himself exactly 2 seconds of a glance up and down Samira’s legs, which were on display in a dress that he hadn’t seen before.
“Then why are you 18 feet from my dinner meeting with Dr. Price?” If Samira had clocked Jack checking her out, she didn’t react to it.
Jack attempted nonchalance as he waved a hand dismissively in the air.“Coincidence.”
“You live in another neighborhood, you hate this restaurant, and you are the same man who once described truffle oil as ‘perfume for potatoes.’”
“That remains accurate.”
Samira stole his drink, tasted it, and made a face. “You ordered club soda.”
“I'm driving.”
“You followed me here in order to responsibly stalk me.”
“I was nearby,” Jack argued.
“Doing what?”
Jack looked around, hoping that Price had noticed Samira sitting next to him. “I was…researching potatoes.”
Her mouth twitched, but Samira refused to give him the satisfaction of a full smile. “Go home, Jack.”
“Do you like him?”
“That is none of your business,” Samira snapped.
“I’m only asking because you looked bored, and typically when discussing the authoring of a journal article, you wouldn’t do it over wine.”
“I looked concerned, not bored, because across the room I sensed a large, judgmental veteran attempting to become part of the wallpaper.”
Jack feigned mock indignation.“That is an insult. I’m way better looking than the wallpaper. I do, however, appreciate you calling me large.”
“Jack.” Samira lowered her voice. “You ended whatever was brewing between us. I told you I liked you. I made a move on you, and you proceeded to get embarrassed by a very normal bodily reaction before ghosting me for a week. You then resurfaced only to tell me that I deserved something uncomplicated, and that you refused to jeopardize my reputation or career by becoming the ‘resident dating her attending.’ Those were your words. You do not get to deliver a noble speech and then haunt my appetizers.”
He remembered every word because he had rehearsed them for 3 days and hated all of them. She’d climbed into his lap and kissed him one night when he was helping her study for her boards, and Jack’s body had betrayed him by cumming in his pants within 90 seconds. Jack had been absolutely mortified and called out of his next 4 shifts. He’d decided while wallowing that Samira deserved a man without sealed Army records, a rented storage unit, and an instinct to solve danger permanently. Jack had released her for her own good, which would have been more convincing if he had not spent every day afterward monitoring where she went, who she was with, and what she was doing.
I did let you go. Technically. You walked away and I did not restrain you, follow you home, or manufacture a gas leak in Price’s building. Frankly, it was a big moment of growth for me.
“I wanted to make sure he was safe for you to be around,” Jack replied.
“He is a surgeon. His greatest danger is being trapped near someone who does not want to discuss his car, or his timeshare in Boca.”
“He had 2 malpractice suits.”
“Everyone at PTMC has malpractice suits,” Samira countered. She took another sip of his club soda and stood, smoothing her dress out as she did. Before leaving, she leaned close enough that her hair brushed Jack’s cheek. “If you continue to be weird about this, I’m not going to be able to maintain any semblance of a friendship with you, Jack. Please don’t make me.”
That threat had sent him home, where he decided to alter his approach.
For the next few weeks, Price had continued his campaign to win everyone in the ED over, using his coffee treats and bad jokes, and perfect hair to do so. Slowly, he won over the techs, then the nurses, then the interns. Jack despised him for it more and more each day.
Then came the beginning of the information that Jack had been praying for. A scrub nurse told Santos that Dr. Price had screamed at a resident until she cried. Santos told Whitaker, Whitaker told Dana, and Dana told Jack while insisting she was not telling him for any particular reason. Then a cop who was escorting a gunshot victim one night recognized Price, and shared with Lena that a former girlfriend had sought a protection order against him and subsequently withdrew it 9 days later. Lena then heard from a friend of hers at Presby that another girlfriend who has been a Physician’s Assistant had signed a nondisclosure agreement following an incident at a hospital holiday party. On top of that, Dr. Price’s malpractice settlements concerned injuries that did not match his operative notes.
Jack built the file piece by piece, and told himself he was protecting Samira by doing so.
Evidence, Mira. That is the difference between jealousy and vigilance. Jealousy is irrational. Vigilance has evidence, victim statements, and corroborating witnesses.
When he tried to warn her 4 days before the breakfast, Samira listened with her arms folded beside Trauma 5.
“You investigated him after I explicitly told you not to,” she snarled.
Jack tried to shoot for a light tone as he tried to calm her down. “I discovered relevant information and am presenting it to you as your friend.”
“Bullshit. You didn’t ‘discover’ anything, you dug and dug and dug to try to prove your point!”
“Samira, this is serious stuff. This isn’t me being overbearing or weird because of what happened between us, this is irrefutable evidence that Price has a concerning pattern of behavior with women and patients. Please, just read some of this.” Jack handed her a copy of the public filings, and she read them quickly, anger tightening her mouth. For one hopeful second, he believed she got the message loud and clear, and would swiftly cut off whatever was developing with Price.
“I’ll ask him,” Samira said.
“You believe he’ll tell you the truth?”
Samira adjusted the claw clip in her hair and rolled her neck from side to side. “I believe adults are allowed to explain accusations before you appoint yourself judge, jury, and an unusually interested executioner.”
Jack tried to steady his breathing. “Look, Dr. Price has a pattern. Keep seeing him if you want, but don't be alone with him. Please.”
Her eyes flashed. “First of all, I am not seeing him, but even if I was, you don't get to issue orders because you found a court record.”
“Categorize a solo dinner and all the other invitations he’s extended to you that I’ve heard about from Dana however you’d like. I get to tell you when I think you're in danger. I’m your friend and I don’t want you to be in danger,” Jack reasoned.
“You think I’m in danger whenever I’m beyond your reach.”
“That isn't true, at all. This has nothing to do with what you’re doing, it's about who it’s with.”
“Jack, you sat at the bar in a hat, shooting daggers at us while we ate dinner and discussed a case.”
Jack went still. “That was different.”
Samira stared at him, then laughed despite herself. “Your arrogance should be studied after your death. It may be load-bearing.”
“Promise me you won't go home with him,” Jack begged. Something flashed over Samira’s face, a mix of anger, pity, regret, and something else Jack couldn’t identify. He felt nauseous at the way the conversation had unfolded, and he feared he’d stepped over a line he wasn’t going to be able to climb back over.
“I will promise to make my own informed decisions. That is all I can give you.” She tucked the filings beneath her tablet and walked away, not engaging with him further about anything that wasn’t patient related the rest of the week.
Now, through the diner window, Jack watched Price lean closer, and he was enraged when he saw Samira did not retreat. Something about her expression was serious, but not frightened or angry. Perhaps Price was explaining the protection order. Perhaps he had a polished story involving a vindictive ex, a misunderstanding, and a legal system tragically weaponized against handsome surgeons. Men like Price always developed sophisticated vocabularies around the harm they caused.
Jack checked the clock again. 9:36 a.m. He hated working on a timer; it was when he got sloppy or desperate and historically, neither of those were a place he liked to operate within. Focusing on the documents on his lap, he recalled the first conversation he’d had with Trent. The complaint had arrived at PTMC 5 days earlier from an anonymous source. Then, former Army investigator named Evelyn Marsh called the hospital and turned over a trove of documents. Trent called Jack into his office when it arrived without explanation and closed the door, placing 4 redacted death summaries on the desk between them.
“Do you recognize these patients?” Trent had asked.
Jack didn’t need to read the summaries to know that he did. He recognized the names beneath the black bars, the smell of dust inside the field hospital, and the precise weight of every decision. Still, he decided to play dumb for a little bit.
“Should I?”
“All 4 patients died under your care.”
“People died under everyone's care. It was a war. There is death in war.”
“All 4 had been accused of violence against women. In 2 cases, the alleged victims served in your unit.”
Jack leaned back. “The word alleged is doing tremendous labor.”
Trent’s gaze sharpened. “That is not a denial, Dr. Abbot”
“It is an observation honed after years of service in active warzones.”
Trent went on to explain that the records showed medication discrepancies, delayed interventions, and charting that had been amended after death. None alone proved intent. Together they made a pattern. Marsh believed Jack had used his position as a physician to kill men he considered guilty.
“What do you believe, Trent?” Jack had asked. He naively thought he could diffuse the situation.
“I believe PTMC cannot employ a physician credibly suspected of murder without investigating.”
“‘Credibly’ is an interesting word choice. You must be a fan of fairytales.”
Trent cleared his throat before continuing. “I’ve already spoken with Robby.”
The room seemed to narrow and Jack tried to remember his breathing techniques from therapy. “Before speaking with me?”
“He is your department chief.”
“He is also my friend of over 20 years,” Jack asserted.
“And those roles are currently in conflict.” Trent had not sounded pleased, which almost made it worse. Cruelty could be fought, but procedure and protocol could only be delayed.
You see policies, Trent, and Robby sees liability. Samira sees people. That is why she will understand; if I can tell her correctly, if I can arrange the facts in an order that does not make me sound like what I am, if I can just have her hear it from me and not you or Robby or Dana or the 6 o’clock news.
He had asked Trent for 48 hours, but the asshole only gave him 24. Then Dr. Price decided to penetrate Samira’s orbit more aggressively, Evelyn Marsh provided PTMC with skeletons Jack thought he’d long buried, and Robby stopped answering.
Fuck.
Back in the diner, Samira touched Price’s wrist, and Jack’s hand tightened around the steering wheel.
You asked him about the protective order and the ex girlfriends. You are reassuring him now, because that is what you do. Someone wounds you and you check whether their hand hurts. It is beautiful. It is also why men mistake your compassion for consent.
The rain outside picked up, slamming into the windshield. Jack could grab his umbrella and walk inside. He could sit beside Samira and tell her everything—the 4 patients, the complaint, Trent, everything. He could give her truth without controlling what she did with it, and he could accept the consequences of his actions. Jack took a breath before he opened his car door.
Then Price laced his fingers with Samira’s across the table, and courage became jealousy so quickly that Jack almost missed the transition. He sat back against his seat and closed his eyes, wondering what cursed fate had been written for him in the stars. Something suddenly compelled him to snap his eyes open just in time to see Samira yank her hand from Price’s and reach for the check. Jack could not hear their exchange, but he could clearly see Price’s face tighten, Samira stand to leave, and the way Price followed her way too quickly.
You did it. You used that instinct that has made you the future of emergency medicine and you picked up on the symptoms no one else did. He’s not right for you. He’s too dangerous for someone as kind and gentle as you.
Jack was out of the SUV before either reached the sidewalk, his ears straining to hear their discussion from behind a pillar. He wanted a moment to evaluate the situation and soon his blood was boiling when he realized what had gone down.
Samira had enjoyed the breakfast and had believed his explanation about the malpractice suits until Dr. Price suggested they continue the date at his apartment. Samira declined, wanting to discuss the protective orders in a public place. He tried persuasion, then wounded charm, then the kind of aggressive irritation that bordered on anger.
“I thought we were having a good time,” Price snapped once outside.
“We were. Now I’m going home,” Samira remarked cooly. That’s my girl.
“You held my hand.”
“This is not middle school. That in no way indicates obligation or consent.”
“I didn’t say you were obligated, but you’re sending a lot of mixed messages. Why are you making this weird?”
“I’m being pretty damn clear in my messages, Dr. Price. You asked a question, and I answered.”
She was moving to step around him and head to her car when Price caught her arm and yanked Samira towards him.
“Let go.” Samira’s voice was steady but Jack could hear the change in pitch.
Price rolled his eyes and sneered at her. “Stop acting like I’m attacking you.”
“Then stop touching me without my consent, and let go. ”
Price’s grip tightened and Jack began making his way towards them. “This is what Abbot did to you. He has you convinced every man is dangerous, so you’ll keep running back to him.”
“Jack has never told me who to date,” Samira’s voice cracked, “Dr. Price, Owen, please let me go. Right now.”
“He didn’t need to. He just hovers around you so everyone stays away, then follows you around like some sort of fan.”
Samira twisted her wrist, but Price anticipated it and caught her other arm, pushing her into the mouth of the alley behind the diner.
“Owen. Take your hands off me.”
“You’re the one who wore a dress so short I could see the bottom of your ass to discuss an article. Do you think I didn’t notice that you conveniently picked a night Santos was on shift and couldn’t come to dinner? Then, today, you spent the whole breakfast flirting with me before pulling out some BS malpractice documents and telling me that you ‘totally understood,’ and now you’re pretending I’m some kind of predator because I expect basic respect.”
“Take your hands off her,” Jack ordered from behind him.
Price quickly released Samira and turned. “Of course you’re fucking here.”
Jack closed the remaining distance between them and squared his shoulders. “Leave now, Price.”
“You were watching us, the same way you were watching us at dinner. Don’t think I didn’t see you in that grubby hat at the bar.”
“It’s time for you to leave while your airway remains structurally sound.” Jack’s voice dropped about two octaves as he flexed his fists, long suppressed habits coming to the surface.
Samira stepped between them and did her best to deescalate the situation. “Jack, I’m fine. Seriously. Dr. Price was just leaving.”
“He put his hands on you,” Jack gritted out.
“And I was handling it.”
Price laughed, picking something invisible from his sleeve. “This is sick. He followed us like a psycho, Samira, but I’m the bad guy? Maybe Dr. Abbot here is the one you need to be worried about. ”
Jack’s phone buzzed again with a message from Trent and he took a second to read it. Noon means noon.
Price saw the distraction and shoved him, not hard enough to knock Jack down but enough to snap the little resolve Jack had been clinging to. Immediately, Jack pulled back and punched Price on the jaw, the sound creating a sickening echo in the alley. The force of his punch caused Price to stumble backward momentarily.Then Price retaliated with a surprising amount of power for a man who openly admitted to going to pilates. The pair collided against the brick, Samira shouting for them to stop. Jack heard her but he could not obey; the string of control had already been cut. Price’s fist struck his ear, and Jack responded by shoving an elbow into his throat. Price went down hard, gasping for air, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Jack registered that he should stop now.
Instead, he saw Samira’s red wrists beneath Price’s fingers. He saw the Army file and old interview footage where Evelyn Marsh interrogated him for hours. He saw Robby reading his message and choosing Trent’s version of the truth over his own best friend. He saw every future in which Samira learned what he was and walked away.
Price pushed himself onto 1 knee and managed to choke out a few words.
“She’s going to find out about you, Abbot.”
Jack struck him again, only this time the back of Price’s head hit the concrete corner of a backdoor step. The sound was small, but the pool of blood that began staining the alleyway was not.
Samira stared at the blood as it ran towards her Hokas. “Jack?”
Kneeling down, Jack felt for a pulse and didn’t find one.
Fuck.
“Call 911,” Samira ordered.
Jack looked up at her and tried to read her expression. “He’s dead.”
“I know what dead looks like. Call them anyway.”
“If you call, they will arrest me. I know that’s not what you want, Samira,” Jack replied.
“You just killed him.” Samira’s words were plain and to the point, but still cut Jack to the core.
“He attacked you.”
“Jack, you killed him after he was already on the ground.”
Sirens sounded several blocks away, unrelated but approaching the general proximity of the diner. Jack stood, trying to steady his voice and the now pounding headache that had developed.
“Mira, listen to me. Go home, okay? You were never here.”
“W-what are you going to do?” Jack hated how scared Samira sounded.
“What I should have done before I followed you.”
Samira shook her head. “That is not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have right now.”
Samira looked at Price, then Jack. Horror and something more complicated moved across her face. “What was he talking about, Jack? About me finding out about you?”
“Not now, Samira. I need you to get out of here, and go home, and stay there. I will explain everything to you, but right now, I need to take care of this,” Jack explained.
“I hate you right now,” Samira whispered.
Jack nodded, swallowing hard. “I know.”
Samira left because the sirens seemed to be getting closer and regardless of what she had just witnessed, some part of her still trusted Jack when he told her what to do.