Chapter Text
The door to the lounge clicks shut, and the voices from the hallway dissolve into a low, indistinct hum. Inside, there’s only a coffee machine still working, a clock inching toward the end of the shift, and a… junior resident.
Park takes a breath, ignores the greeting, and walks straight to the coffee machine.
Technically, the guy isn’t even from orthopedics. He’s rotating from the ER—Jack? Jonathan? Something like that. He definitely introduced himself this morning, but Park never remembers the names of new trainees. Even when he does, he can’t match them to faces. This is a teaching hospital, after all. Dr. Harrison has mentioned his attitude problem more than once, but the most Park is willing to concede is to ignore them outside of teaching situations.
Usually, after hitting a few walls with him, residents learn not to bother him. This one, apparently, doesn’t have that kind of awareness—or just doesn’t care whether Park responds.
“I saved you some coffee, but looks like you guys are out of sugar,” he says, with an almost cartoonishly easy smile. “Pretty quiet day, huh?”
“Are you serious?” Park shoots back. Small talk like that is bad enough—but who says that word fifteen minutes before the end of a shift?
As if on cue, the door bursts open and a nurse rushes in. “Park, we’ve got a transfer coming in from Presby.”
“What? That’s Harrison’s patient. He’s not even here today.”
“They said they didn’t get the notice. Either way, they’re already downstairs. Harper got called to the ER for a consult—looks like we might be taking another one up for surgery too.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.”
This was supposed to be one of the rare days this month he got off on time. Now it’s gone—ruined by a jinx of a resident. The resident lets out an awkward little laugh, then goes back to sipping his coffee like nothing happened.
And that’s when Park places him.
Last year had been the most chaotic of his career. COVID hit like a tidal wave, tearing through a hospital that already ran on staff pushing themselves past their limits just to keep it functioning. With the shortage, even specialists like Park were pulled down to the ER to help with triage and minor cases. In a waiting room packed shoulder to shoulder, surrounded by an endless stream of patients, it was hard to notice a med student trailing behind him.
He’d been too busy to send the rookie away. And honestly, having someone there was better than not, so he’d let the student shadow him for the duration of his shift. That alone wouldn’t have made him memorable.
What he did remember was this—
After finally clearing his batch of patients, Park had stepped outside for a breather. The student followed him out, pulled down his mask just like Park did, and took a deep breath of fresh air.
“Finally, some quiet,” he said.
Park hadn’t even had time to tell him not to say that before he saw the red and blue lights of an ambulance.
He’d ended up working fourteen hours that day.
Hopefully, today wouldn’t turn into that.
“You—come with me,” Park says now, pointing at the resident. “Joint replacement’s a good learning opportunity. Your hands steady enough?”
“Uh… yeah, I think so.”
Maybe he realizes he said the wrong thing, because he unties the jacket around his waist and follows without another word.
As an R1, his main job in the OR is retraction. Park shows him once, and he picks it up quickly. After adjusting to the angle Park wants, he even has the nerve to comment, “This isn’t that hard.”
Everyone else in the room is masked, but that doesn’t stop the looks they exchange.
“Your job is to hold it there,” Park says, picking up the periosteal elevator.
“Won’t take too long, right?” the resident glances around at the silent team. “Right?”
“Be quiet.”
By the time they step out of the OR, the resident’s eyes are unfocused, his arms barely lifting. Even changing takes him longer.
Park heads into the locker room for his bag. The resident’s locker is a temporary one, right next to his, so before he closes it, Park catches a glimpse of the ID badge he takes off and tosses inside.
The name on the plastic sleeve reads:
John Shen.
A name so ordinary it’s hardly worth remembering.