Medical Center
"Congrats!" Adam said to the surgical chief with a grin. "I bet everyone else will be thrilled to hear the good news too."
"Thanks," the chief replied.
He was grateful for Adam's congrats—and for the subtle hint that Adam would spread the word for him. It'd make it clear he wasn't flip-flopping; the chairman had just begged him to stay, over and over. What choice did he have?
Emergency Room
Adam sent Lexie and Shorty off to deliver test results—part of his plan to train them into cool-headed, professional docs who still had a heart.
Carter and George, meanwhile, stuck close to him.
"Let's see if there's anything juicy today," Adam said with a chuckle.
"Nada so far," the nurse said, handing him the patient log with a smile.
Adam skimmed it—yep, nothing exciting. "Carter, why're you just standing there? Even small cases are still cases," he said, passing the log back to the nurse. "Don't tell me your basics are up to my standards already. Get moving!"
"On it!" Carter replied, not daring to argue.
He remembered how the head nurse kept drilling it into him: Adam cared most about a rock-solid foundation. No slacking. He hustled off to tackle the minor stuff.
"Winnie, Carter's all yours," Adam said to the nurse with a grin. "Any work pops up, throw it his way. Make him get his hands dirty—don't let him just strut around in that white coat looking cool."
"Heh, don't worry, Dr. Duncan," Nurse Winnie giggled. "We all know how high your hopes are for Dr. Carter. We've got eyes on him!"
"Thanks—and tell the others I said thanks too," Adam replied.
George watched from the side, a wry smile tugging at his lips.
Once upon a time, he was the nurses' golden boy, pampered and fussed over. But somewhere along the line, that vibe vanished. Now, the only "pampering" he got was the nurses keeping tabs on him as Adam's intern—more like babysitting than anything else.
Sometimes, watching his girlfriend Callie in full-on professional mode, he'd get the urge to pull a Meredith: pin her against a wall in some corner, sneak into a quiet room, and have a wild "lunch break." 😏
But then he'd remember—the nurses were watching. They'd rat him out to Adam in a heartbeat. That impulse? Poof, gone.
He even wondered—if he actually went for it and a nurse caught him, would they bang on the door and give him a permanent complex?
Dodging nurses' eagle eyes in a hospital—especially when it felt like the entire nurse squad was in on it—was basically impossible.
"Dr. Duncan!"
Right then, the ER doors swung open, and a stretcher rolled in.
"What've we got?" Adam asked, motioning George to follow as he hurried over.
"He passed out at the nursing home," the aide wheeling the stretcher explained.
"BP's 50/30, pulse weak at 130, no tendon reflexes, no response to pain," Adam said, checking him over. "This IV's blown—his veins are too fragile to handle it. What's his name?"
"Johnson Peggy," the aide replied.
"Peggy?" Adam paused at the name, then grabbed a penlight, shining it into the old man's eyes. "Johnson? Johnson? Mr. Peggy?"
Nothing. No reaction.
"How old is he? What's his quality of life been like? Did he sign a DNR?" Adam asked, turning to the aide.
Sure, saving him now might only net Adam a measly +0.01 to his lifespan counter. But every case was different.
This guy was basically a vegetable already. If he was ancient, had a miserable life, and had a DNR, yanking him back from the brink would not only break the law but also torture the poor guy.
Adam didn't need that 0.01 bad enough to pull a selfish move like that.
"Uh…" The aide froze under Adam's sharp look, then stammered, "I just started—I don't really know…"
"Call your nursing home now. I need his full details ASAP!" Adam snapped.
"Y-Yes, okay!" the aide sputtered.
"What's the number?" Nurse Winnie jumped in. "I'll call!"
The aide rattled it off, and Winnie dialed fast.
"His heart rate's dropping!" another nurse warned.
"Winnie, you through yet?" Adam called.
"They've got me on hold," Winnie said, exasperated.
Judging by the aide's cluelessness, that nursing home was a mess.
"Can't wait," Adam decided. "Winnie, keep pushing them. The second you get anything, tell me. For now, we're starting resuscitation—hook up oxygen, prep atropine."
With zero info, even if letting the guy pass naturally turned out to be the right call, Adam had to act. He couldn't just stand there.
Twelve minutes of frantic CPR later—still no response.
"Dr. Duncan, the nursing home found his records. No DNR on file," Winnie reported, phone in hand.
"What's he got?" Adam asked, still pressing on the guy's chest.
"Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, kidney failure, congestive heart failure, prostate cancer, diabetes!" Winnie rattled off the laundry list.
"…" Adam's mouth twitched. "Tell them to double-check. With that many issues, how's there no DNR? Can they reach his family?"
"He's got a granddaughter," Winnie said. "They're trying to contact her."
"He's got a heartbeat!" a nurse shouted.
"This old guy's a freaking warrior," another nurse marveled.
Adam couldn't agree more.
He'd been ready to call it, but at the last second, the guy pulled through—stubborn as hell.
"Hope you actually want to be here, no DNR and all…" Adam muttered, glancing at the +0.01 ping on his system. Normally, that little boost made him happy, but not this time. He sighed.
With that many illnesses, living was pure agony. If the guy had signed a DNR, dragging him back like this was just cruel.
And that nursing home? Total clown show. They sent him over with no records, and the aide might as well have had "temp worker" stamped on his forehead. Made Adam wonder if they'd lost the DNR—or just didn't bother looking.
In TV drama land, old folks get shipped off to nursing homes or care facilities. You'd think money would solve everything, even without kids.
Yeah, right—reality's way weirder.
No kids, tons of cash, and a fancy facility? Still a recipe for a grim end. Care's only as good as the people giving it.
They say no one's loyal at a sickbed for long—not even your own kids. So banking on a hired aide? Good luck.
No family popping in to check on you, and once you're too frail to move, it's open season. Bullied into misery, money or not.
At that point, all the folks tied to your cash—the ones you paid to look after you—might not care if you can't fight back. They could squabble over your stash, team up, and legally (or not) drain every penny you set aside for a comfy old age.
Then they either park you in a dump to rot or "help" you check out early to free up the bed.
Human nature's a gamble you don't want to test.
Adam just hoped this old guy wasn't one of those cases.
(End of Chapter)