Chapter 2 — Behind Closed Doors
Ethan
The hallway outside Ethan’s office was unusually quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos of the Emergency Department earlier that morning. The faint hum of fluorescent lights underscored the occasional echo of hurried footsteps. Ethan closed the glass door behind him with a deliberate click, shutting out the world beyond.
His office reflected his personality—precise, efficient, and devoid of unnecessary sentimentality. Muted grays and whites dominated the minimalist space, and the only decoration was a framed diploma on the wall, more a declaration of credentials than a celebration of achievement. On the desk sat his monogrammed scalpel case, its sleek black leather surface catching the sharp afternoon light.
Ethan leaned back in his chair, exhaling a measured breath through his nose. It didn’t help. The tension coiled in his chest refused to ease. That morning, the hospital board had delivered their directive: implement budget cuts to address systemic inefficiencies and reduce errors. The polished assurances had sounded hollow. Ethan knew exactly what this meant—fewer resources, longer hours, and the inevitable compromise to patient care, no matter how carefully they tried to disguise it.
He rubbed a hand across his temple, the words “efficiency” and “cost-saving” ringing in his ears. His jaw tightened as his thoughts drifted to Mrs. Kessler, an elderly patient from months ago. The delay in her diagnostic tests—caused by staffing shortages—hadn’t directly led to her passing, but Ethan knew it hadn’t helped. The memory of her pale, frail hand clutching at the edge of her blanket haunted him more than he cared to admit. He had told himself her outcome had been unavoidable, but the quiet weight of doubt lingered.
Reaching for the scalpel case, Ethan unlatched the silver clasp with practiced precision. Tracing the polished handles of the scalpels within, he let the ritual ground him. The tools were arranged in perfect order, each edge honed to exact specifications. This was his sanctuary—a way to impose order on a world that refused to comply.
But even the familiar ritual couldn’t quiet his mind today. His thoughts flitted back to the Emergency Department, to Jamie Diaz—a wiry teenager with wide brown eyes and a defiant grin that seemed to challenge the very illness draining him—and then to Lila Bennett.
Ethan’s fingers paused over the scalpel case. Lila had moved through the chaos of the ED with a disarming ease, her floral-patterned stethoscope draped casually around her neck. Her warmth had seemed incongruous amidst the clinical urgency, yet somehow, it worked.
He could still hear Jamie’s voice. “Those aren’t just doodles—they’re battle plans. For when I fight the monster in my lungs.”
Lila had crouched by the boy’s bed, her voice low and soothing. “And you’re going to win, aren’t you? Every hero needs a plan.” She had smiled then, a smile that softened the edges of the world.
Ethan had turned away, focusing instead on the scans on the monitor. Sentiment had no place in the Emergency Department. It clouded judgment, smuggled in unpredictable variables, and invited mistakes. And yet, Jamie’s words had lingered in his thoughts all morning.
“Heroes need sidekicks.”
Snapping the scalpel case shut, Ethan pushed the thought aside and stood. He had spreadsheets to analyze, proposals to draft. The hospital ran on precision and logic, and he intended to keep it that way.
Clipboard in hand, Ethan strode out of his office, his steps brisk and purposeful. But as the corridor stretched toward the pediatric ward, his pace unconsciously slowed. Laughter drifted faintly from Jamie’s room, incongruous against the sterile backdrop.
Through the glass window, Ethan saw Lila perched on the edge of Jamie’s bed. Her hazel eyes sparkled as she held up a half-finished sketch.
“That’s you,” Jamie was saying, his lopsided grin lighting up his pale face. “Except, you know, with a cooler hairstyle.”
Lila laughed, the sound warm and unguarded. “I’ll take it as a compliment. But I think you’ve given me way too much credit. You’re the real hero here, Jamie.”
The boy shrugged, his grin widening. “Heroes need sidekicks, don’t they? You’re my sidekick.”
Ethan’s grip on the clipboard tightened. He lingered longer than he intended, his gaze drawn to the sketch in Jamie’s hands. The caped figure stood tall, its pose confident but watchful, wielding a gleaming saber that reflected light. Something about it stirred an unfamiliar pang in Ethan’s chest—a mix of admiration and unease he couldn’t quite place.
Turning on his heel, Ethan walked away, his sharp footsteps echoing down the hall.
---
By the time evening settled over the hospital, Ethan found himself in the operating theatre. The room was empty, its pristine brightness dimmed to a cooler glow with no surgery in progress. The sharp smell of antiseptic lingered, a familiar companion.
Moving through the space, Ethan let his fingertips brush against the steel instruments neatly laid out on the central table. Here, he felt most at home. The chaos of the outside world fell away in this room, leaving only clean, sharp focus.
But tonight, the theatre felt different. It was too quiet. The familiar sterility pressed against him, no longer a comfort but an echo of his isolation. He thought of the budget cuts, the strained looks exchanged between his colleagues during the last board meeting. And then, unbidden, he thought of Lila’s unrestrained laughter in Jamie’s room, warm and unrelenting against the coldness of everything else.
“Dr. Harris.”
The voice startled him, and he turned to see Lila standing in the doorway, her floral stethoscope catching the dim light. She hesitated, then stepped inside, treading carefully as though entering his domain.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said, her tone softer than usual.
“You are not interrupting,” Ethan replied, though his tone remained clipped. “What do you need, Nurse Bennett?”
Lila frowned slightly at his formality but pressed on. “Jamie asked me to check in on you. He said you seemed… tense earlier.”
Ethan raised a brow. “Tense?”
“His words, not mine.” She shrugged, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “He’s perceptive, though. For a kid.”
“He should focus on his recovery, not my demeanor,” Ethan replied, his voice measured.
Lila tilted her head, her hazel eyes studying him with quiet curiosity. “That’s just how he is. He notices people. It’s how he copes.”
Ethan regarded her silently for a moment, his gaze unreadable. “And you? Do you also cope by observing others?”
“Sometimes,” Lila said, her voice softening. “It’s not a bad thing, you know. Noticing people. It helps.”
“Helps?” Ethan echoed.
“It reminds us why we’re here,” she replied simply. Her voice carried a calm conviction that threw him off balance.
Ethan’s fingers hovered over a scalpel, the blade catching the dim light. He thought of Mrs. Kessler, of Jamie, of the caped figure in the boy’s sketch.
“I will take your observation under advisement,” he said finally, his tone softening just enough to take the edge off his words.
Lila smiled faintly, her expression tinged with satisfaction. “Fair enough. Goodnight, Dr. Harris.”
“Goodnight, Nurse Bennett.”
She turned to leave, her footsteps light against the tile floor. Ethan watched her go, the floral stethoscope swaying gently with each step.
When the door clicked shut behind her, he exhaled slowly. His gaze returned to the steel instruments before him. For the first time in a long while, the sterile precision of the operating theatre felt less like a sanctuary and more like a cage.
