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“Male, young adult, possible gunshot wound.” Kirby says, and Jonathan blinks.
“Possible gunshot wound?” He says in disbelief. It’s usually an either/or situation.
“They’re being cagey about it.” Kirby explains. “But probably a gunshot wound, yes.”
“How often does this happen?” Jonathan asks tentatively. He’s just started his rotation in the ER, and he’s gotten concussions, broken bones, the flu, and a snowglobe up the ass so far. He hasn’t had to deal with a gunshot yet.
“It happens sometimes.” Kirby says with a shrug. “I forgot how green you are. Want to come observe?”
Jonathan nods, follows her into the room. An assortment of people are in there, surrounding a young black man who is lying on the exam chair. They’re all talking over each other in cheerful chaos.
Kirby clears her throat. They all settle down and turn towards her.
“Hardison.” She says, and the man nods. “You’ve got a gunshot wound.”
“I wouldn’t say -” The older man says. He’s got on a Hawaiian shirt, a mismatched three piece suit, and a truly horrific hat. Jonathan can tell he’s about to say some bullshit, just from the look on his face.
“I don’t care how you got it, or why.” Kirby cuts him off. “You have patient confidentiality. We just want to treat you.”
“Then yes.” The man says. Sits back.
“Jonathan will be observing, if that's alright with you.” Kirby says briskly. “I need to examine my patient now.”
None of them make a move to leave.
“You can’t all stay.” Kirby says impatiently.
“It’s fine.” Hardison says. “I don’t need them to leave for the exam, if it’s not too much trouble.”
Kirby nods her assent, exchanges a look with Jonathan. Alright. So it’s not just him who’s freaked out by all this.
The older woman rises gracefully. “I’ll get some coffee. Does anyone want anything?”
“An orange soda.” Hardison says fervently.
The gunshot wound is more of a graze than anything, but there’s also a second degree burn on Hardison’s torso.
The man in a flannel and long hair watches them like a hawk as they work, while the young blond woman looks on curiously.
“Ow.” Hardison complains as Jonathan starts to apply the burn cream. “Getting shot wasn’t bad enough?”
“You’re so dramatic.” The long haired man says. “I’ve fought with worse.”
“Not everyone is as used to pain as you.” The man with the ugly hat says.
“Tell him, Nate.” Hardison grouses. “I’m more of a hang back kinda guy. No need to put yourself into the line of fire when you’ve got my skills.”
How could anyone be used to getting shot? And why would they all be in the line of fire? What line of fire? It’s not like there’s a war going on in Boston right now. Jonathan’s head spins with the possibilities.
All too quickly, it’s over. Hardison didn’t even need stitches.
“Thank you.” The man with the ugly hat - Nate - says sincerely, shakes his hand. “You’re doing good work here.”
Jonathan’s almost forgotten about the patients when he clocks into work, only to find Kirby waiting for him.
“Did you have it too?” She asks, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Jonathan blinks at her. His brain struggles to comprehend her question, too little sleep and his coffee not having kicked in yet.
“What?”
“This morning, I got a letter in the mail saying all my student loans had been paid off.” Kirby says excitedly. “And someone sent me a fifty thousand dollar check. Leverage Incorporated. But I can’t find anything about it.”
“I didn’t check.” Jonathan says. But why would someone randomly do that?
“I think it’s the people we treated yesterday.” Kirby whispers. “The gunshot wound.”
“But how?” Jonathan asks. If they’re rich enough to change his and Kirby’s life without a second thought, they wouldn’t end up in some random ER. They’d probably have a doctor on retainer, or something. And he doesn’t want to think about how someone became that rich. “What if they’re connected to the mob? What if we get in trouble for accepting their money?”
“I’ll take my chances.” Kirby says with a grin.
“Middle aged man, knee pain.” Chrissy says, hands Dennis a chart. “Room three.”
“Hello,” Dennis says as he enters the room, consults the clipboard in his hands. “Mr. Spencer.”
“Eliot is fine.” Eliot says. He’s sitting on the exam table. Two others are sitting quietly, watching. Or, one is watching. The other is typing furiously on his phone.
“What can I help you with, then?” Dennis asks.
Eliot sighs. “It’s not a big deal, really. I have some pain in my knee.”
“Your knee gave way in the middle of cooking dinner.” The man on the phone retorts, barely looking up. Dennis gets the sense that this is a continuation of a long discussion. “That’s the type of thing that needs to get checked out.”
“Well, I’ll need to examine it.” Dennis says. Eliot is wearing basketball shorts, which is convenient. “What do you do for work?” He asks as Eliot scooches back, pulls his shorts up to reveal his inflamed knee.
“I work in a kitchen.”
“So on your feet a lot, then.” Dennis guesses.
“He also does mixed martial arts.” The man with the phone says. “If that could also be a factor.”
Dennis pokes and prods at Eliot’s knee, tests for pain when he straightens it.
“And don’t lie.” The blond woman says sternly.
“I don’t lie.” Eliot protests.
Well, Dennis is no specialist, but he knows when a knee isn’t working how it’s supposed to.
“It’s likely a meniscus tear.” Dennis says. “Usually you need to ice and rest it. But you should see a specialist, too. They can recommend you for surgery.”
“Thank you.” Eliot says.
“Yeah, no problem.” Dennis says as they leave.
Dennis sighs as he finally gets out of the ER. He’s checking his emails absentmindedly as he sits on the bus.
There’s an email saying his student loans have been paid off. Dennis stares at the email. Reads it and rereads it again. His loans have been paid off.
Another email comes in, this time to tell him that he got a membership to his local movie theater. Dennis blinks.
He didn’t pay off his loans, nor has he been going on the website to the movie theater. He used to have a membership, but he got rid of it when his rent got more expensive.
Should he investigate? Call the bank, the theater, tell them there’s been some sort of mistake? That’s probably the right thing to do.
Or he could just let this be. Allow himself to accept the gifts from the universe, or a benevolent benefactor, or whatever.
Yeah. He’ll do that.
Emma’s finally gotten a second to breathe when two men come in, holding a blonde woman between them. Her teeth are gritted, and her leg is held awkwardly.
“Her leg is broken, we think.” She hears one of the men say as they check in. It’s late enough that they get seen relatively quickly.
She hears snatches of conversation, sees them all bickering good naturedly as they wait.
“Ma’am.” Someone says as she’s rushing past. She turns, looks at the long-haired man.
“Yeah?”
“Do you know how long x-rays usually take?”
For a second Emma just blinks at him. Oh, right. His friend had said the woman's leg was broken.
“Usually half an hour.” Emma says. “I can check for you. What’s her name?”
“Alice White.” The other man cuts in. Emma nods, hurries away.
“I remember the name.” She hears one of them say. Whatever that means.
“I don’t like it.” A voice hisses. Emma blinks, turns around. There's the woman, Alice, hobbling on crutches and with a thick cast on her leg.
“Yeah, but your leg is injured.” The black man says patiently. “Don’t worry, you’ll be good as new in no time.”
“Yeah, but -” Alice says, stops to do some sort of acrobatic move that makes Emma’s heart stop for a second. “I can’t move well like this.”
“Parker - Damn it, Hardison, she needs to rest.” The long haired man growls.
“Why am I getting in trouble?” Hardison complains. “I’m not in charge of her.”
“Excuse me, Alice?” Emma says. For a second the lady doesn’t react, until the long haired man elbows her. She must be spacey, or tired. Emma can relate.
“Uh, yeah?”
“Do you need to check out?” Emma asks.
“I’ll handle that.” Hardison volunteers, following her to the desk. The last Emma hears from the group is the long haired man lecturing Alice about the nutritional contents of cereal.
Priya’s almost done with her shift when she gets a new case.
“Room 4.” Carol says, hands her a clipboard. “Broken glass, cut hand.”
Priya goes, knocks on the door. “Maggie?”
“Nice to meet you.” Maggie says graciously. She and the woman she’s with are both dressed to the nines, chatting as if they’re in a fancy restaurant or a play, not an emergency room.
“Let me see your hand.” Priya says, sits down on a stool.
Maggie offers her hand, and Priya gets to work with her tweezers. The cut isn’t particularly big, but wounds with debris always need to be handled carefully.
The other woman introduces herself as Sophie, and somehow Priya finds herself spilling all the details about her life. The problem with the water heater, the woes of long shifts, the fact that she and her husband now have to cook enough food to feed an army on a daily basis for her children.
She’s almost done when a man comes rushing in.
“Maggie, are you ok?”
“We’re fine.” Sophie says exasperatedly. “I didn’t text you so you would freak out. We just wanted you to bring us some fries and a milkshake.”
“Which I got.” The man says, then holds the bag aloft. “But we need to have a conversation.”
“Your husband?” Priya guesses.
“Ex husband.” Maggie corrects.
“My current husband.” Sophie says. Priya blinks. Well. She hadn’t been expecting that.
“Sophie, you need to stop dragging her into things.” The man says tiredly.
“I didn’t get dragged anywhere.”
“We’re friends. We were bonding.” Sophie insists. “And things went fine tonight.”
“The fact that we’re in the ER says differently.”
“Ok.” Priya says brightly, putting the finishing touches on the bandage. “I’m done.”
“Oh, thank you so much.” Maggie says.
“Lovely to meet you.” Sophie says.
Priya forgets about the interaction until a water heater shows up, free and ready to be installed later that week.
“Did we win the lottery?” Her husband asks.
“No.” Priya says, mystified. And it keeps happening. She gets a thousand dollar gift card to the local grocery store, and then a check from Leverage Incorporated.
There are no details that can be found online. She asks around, and no one’s heard of it, or at the very least, no one's giving out any details.
Oh well. There are some mysteries in life that will just have to stay mysteries.
“New case.” Dana says, and Robby sighs. Every shift is tiring, but this one especially. “Young adult, cut that’ll need stitches, maybe a blood transfusion.”
“Is that it?” Robby asks. Santos could do it with her eyes closed. Any of them could do it - no need to bring him in.
“One of the guys with her looks just like you, if you didn’t have a beard and chose to be a banker.” Dana says. “It’s freaky.”
“I’ll take it, then.” Robby says, goes where Dana points him to.
“Hello, I’m Doctor Robby and I’ll be helping you.” Robby says as he closes the door behind him. Then he pauses, watches at the assortment of people staring at him. “I assume one of you is injured, right?”
“You do look like our Mr. Wilson.” A British-accented voice says. Robby turns to look at the woman who said it. She’s glamorous, sitting next to a young woman who’s holding her arm and wincing.
“Speaking of, where is he?” The injured woman says.
“Taking care of something.” The British woman says. “Sorry, Breanna is the one who needs medical care.”
“May I?” Robby asks, takes her arm gently when she nods. He examines her, trying to ignore the way the blond woman and long-haired man are watching him like hawks. “You got lucky. This almost hit your artery.”
“You should be more careful.” The long-haired man growls. He’s standing behind Robby, making his neck tingle, all his senses screaming, ‘danger!’.
Robby is able to tune out the chatter around him as he stitches Breanna up, but only because he has a lot of practice. The truth is, he’s fascinated by all of them, with their incomprehensible references and the way all of them are dressed up for entirely different events.
“Done.” Robby says. “Eat and drink something to make up for the blood loss. The stitches should dissolve on its own, but if there are any problems or if you have any questions, come back here.”
“Thank you.” Breanna says. She practically skips over to a man in khakis and a polo. Robby stops and stares. The guy looks just like him, if he’d made drastically different life choices.
Could he have a long lost sibling?
“We owe you one.” The black man with the laptop bag says seriously.
“Just doing my job.” Robby tries to say, glances back at the guy. It’s just so strange.
“Believe me, you are not just doing your job.” The British woman says, stopping in front of him to brush the shoulders of his scrubs. “We’ll remember you helped us.” She says, sweeps out.
“But -”
“Don’t try to fight it.” The blond woman says, appearing in front of him. She stares at him intensely. “Do you have a long lost twin?”
“No.” Robby starts to say, but she’s disappeared.
“He looks like you, huh?” Dana says, smirking when he sees her next.
“That was the weirdest group I’ve ever had.” Robby says, sighs. “What’s next?”
A week later, Robby goes into work to see the dean of medicine waiting for him.
“What did you do?” She demands.
“I’m working.” Robby offers. He can’t think of anything particularly noteworthy. Unless she’s onto him about patient satisfaction ratings again.
“You didn’t meet a mysterious benefactor, promise care to any billionaires?”
“Not that I know of.”
“We just got an anonymous donation for the ER. The note mentioned you specifically.” The dean says. “It was a lot of money.”
Huh. The only person Robby can think of is Breanna, and how the woman had said that they would remember him. But - billionaires? They didn’t seem like the type.
“I didn’t do anything or say anything to anyone.” Robby says, shrugs. “Why don’t we just agree not to look this gift horse in the mouth.”