Night Call

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Hey, Holmes! I thought you were in Vegas?”

“Yeah, I was.” Tristan sank down on the ugly green vinyl sofa that occupied one wall in the OR lounge and propped her feet up on a nearby chair. “But when I heard you all were having so much fun back here, I left early.”

Most of the Philadelphia Medical College surgeons and anesthesiologists were in Las Vegas for a trauma meeting all week, and only a skeleton staff remained at the hospital. Tristan had been there too until she’d received an emergency call from her chief. Acute staffing shortage, he’d informed her. Two of the senior anesthesia staff were unexpectedly out of commission—one with a broken leg following a collision with a goose while he was rollerblading through the park along the Schuylkill River, and the other with a family crisis.

Since Tristan was the low man—or woman, in this case—on the ladder, seeing as how she’d just started on staff only a few weeks before, she’d gamely saluted and fallen on her sword for the good of her brother and sister anesthesiologists. She’d taken the redeye back the night before and gone straight to the hospital.

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