Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 118309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
“Thanks.” My gratitude is short because she helped me find Mrs. Ivanov’s latest blood workup, and the results are miraculous, but she completely overlooked the fact we have a patient in a ward who hasn’t been admitted.
Mrs. Ivanov was brought in by an ambulance five days ago. That means the ER department should have handled her admission. If her time here was missed, and the department is not assigned the funds for her consultation and subsequent admission, they could lose even more medical officers than they lost the prior year.
“Who should I call to ensure Mrs. Ivanov’s admission was done correctly?”
“You could ask the admissions clerk,” answers the nurse, “but last I heard, she was off sick.” When I huff in frustration, she promises to look into it if I assist her in administrating Ondansetron to a child in bay three. “She hasn’t kept anything down in over twenty-four hours and has severe abdominal distension.”
The worry on her face has me leaping up from my seat and following her into a curtained-off cubicle without further consultation.
CHAPTER THREE
By the time I head for the room where underpaid hospital subcontractors sterilize medical equipment each night, ready for my second shift of the day, I’ve treated over three dozen patients with gastroenteritis and emesis symptoms, intubated two middle-aged women, and regretfully shadowed the honor walk of a patient who couldn’t be saved.
He was an organ donor, so his legacy will live on for many years to come.
I’m exhausted but determined. You don’t have much choice when you’re relying on money you’ve not yet earned. The pharmacist allows me to place my grandfather’s pricy medication on a tab, but the payment plan we agreed upon is due this Friday—the same day I get paid for the sterilization of instruments I plan to use one day. My salary from Myasnikov Private doesn’t land in my bank account until Tuesday.
As I veer past the surgical ward, I pretend curiosity isn’t gnawing at my stomach, begging for the chance to be heard. Mrs. Ivanov’s latest blood workup shows her prognosis is significantly better than hours ago, but there’s nothing like witnessing a miracle firsthand.
Confident that my half-hour break could be better utilized doing anything but gorging carbs I’ll never work off, I veer my steps toward the surgical ward instead of the ORs our patients frequent.
Several nurses and doctors dip their chins in greeting when I stroll by, but none stop me to chat like they usually do when I do my rounds. They scatter more than socialize, meaning I make it to Mrs. Ivanov’s room with twenty-seven minutes remaining on my break.
My brows stitch when I take in the made bed in the middle of the empty room. My scan of the patient board as I strolled past the nurses’ station was quick, but Mrs. Ivanov was still assigned this room.
Concern slithers through me when I hear water running from the attached bathroom. Mrs. Ivanov’s latest test results show a drastic improvement in her condition, but she shouldn’t be showering without assistance. She could slip and hurt herself. Dizziness is a common side effect of a B12 deficiency.
After trying and failing to secure the assistance of a nurse, I enter Mrs. Ivanov’s room, place the contract I was offered next to her patient file, and then make a beeline for the bathroom.
“Mrs. Ivanov,” I call out while knocking softly. I don’t want to startle her. That will increase the risk of a patient slip and a ton of paperwork I’d rather avoid. “Do you require assistance?”
When my question is answered with silence, I test the lock.
It is unlocked.
“Mrs. Ivanov, it is Dr. Hoffman from this morning,” I announce while opening the door and directing my eyes toward the shower.
The chance of a slip hazard is a certainty when the person in the shower isn’t who I’m expecting. He has the same inky-black hair and glowing tanned skin as Mrs. Ivanov, but his muscles are far more defined and covered with tattoos.
The stranger who took up my campaign this morning for Mrs. Ivanov to be tested for a B12 deficiency is drowning his head under a heavy flow of water. It flattens his slicked-back hair away from his gorgeous face and showcases the deep V in the middle of his prominent brows. His lips are parted as he sucks in shallow breaths, and his eyes are closed.
Well, they were until he senses my watch.
When his fists clench, the thick muscles in his forearms flex. I swear there’s not an iota of unnecessary fat on him anywhere. He’s all muscles and ink—and angry sneers.
“I’m so sorry,” I blurt out before I divert my eyes to the floor.
I should have chosen the ceiling. It would have made my pledge of innocence more realistic since my dilated eyes wouldn’t have needed to veer past his cock that grew larger the longer I stared.