dical Center. Outside the OR. Hallway.
As Adam strolls over from the ER, he catches a classic scene unfolding.
redith and Christina are huddled together, whispering and stealing glances at sothing nearby.
A little further off, Dr. Shephard and Dr. Burke are locked in their own standoff.
"We've got an organ donor coming in from Weeks Hospital this afternoon. We'll harvest the organs, and we need OR 1 at four," Burke says.
"I've got OR 1 booked then," Shephard counters.
"Your surgery's not critical."
"You can't just cancel mine."
"As surgical chief, I can!"
"Interim chief!"
"Interim or not, I'm the chief! I call the shots now. You took the OR I needed, so your surgery's been rescheduled!"
Burke lays it down, and Shephard glares at him for a long beat before storming off.
That's power for you— first, always.
Not happy? Tough luck!
Adam's musing again about how the path to becoming a top doc isn't just about skill—it's about clout too—when Christina's bombshell to redith hits his ears.
"What the hell?"
Adam's jaw drops.
What are they even talking about? Did those two attendings screw them over so bad they're swearing off n entirely? They're already sizing things up before even hitting the OR?
And seriously, in their eyes, are guys really that petty?
"Christina, you—"
"What're you thinking?" Christina cuts him off, rolling her eyes at Adam's shocked face. "We're talking about Burke and Shephard."
"Oh." Adam blinks.
Okay, that taphor… uhh… kinda works, actually.
"n are all trash!" redith grumbles.
"Damn right!" Christina agrees, locking eyes with Burke from across the way. She's still bitter—he knocked her up in one shot, nearly killed her, then dumped her for a promotion.
She used to be so cool-headed, but now her hormones are a ss, and she's all over the place. "We don't even need n. What's a motorized prosthetic cost? Way better than those cold-blooded jerks!"
"I'm with you!" Adam flashes a thumbs-up. "Stick to it, and I'll cover all your prosthetics for life—buy as many as you want, I'll foot the bill."
"Pfft!" redith spits.
"Dream on," Christina snaps, her冷静 kicking back in through the hormonal haze. She sees right through him. "You're hoping we ditch them for good so it's easier to snag surgeries from us, huh?"
redith catches on too and throws him a massive eye-roll.
Adam just grins, saying nothing.
Beep! Beep! Beep!
Their pagers go off one after another. They exchange a look—sothing big's up.
Christina glances at hers and bolts for the ER. redith's right behind her.
"Take it easy, you two—you just got back on your feet," Adam calls after them, lingering where he stands.
ER.
"Male, 55, car crash victim. Coma scale 3, skull fracture, multiple internal injuries. We've started cardiac protocol—blood's not circulating. We're pushing ds through his nasal tube, but his heart's basically stopped."
The ambulance screeches to a halt at the ER doors.
Adam beats Christina and redith there, who stumble in panting behind him. Dr. Bailey's already on scene with George and Izzie, ready to roll.
This crash called for an ambulance, and en route, the paradics radioed ahead with the basics—straight to the OR, no pit stops. So, no need for ER docs like Susan; surgery's taking over.
Car accidents rarely involve just one or two people. This ti, it's a family of three that slamd into another car—four victims total.
Dr. Bailey's rallied her top four interns, and Susan tagged Adam in, knowing he's a surgery hound.
"How long's he been out?" Bailey asks.
"We did CPR for 20 minutes. Firefighters took 20 to cut him out. He's pretty much gone," the paradic reports.
"No—only a doctor says he's gone, and then he's gone!" Bailey snaps with authority.
She scans the group, landing on Adam. "Duncan, you're on this—save him!"
"Yes, ma'am!" Adam jumps in without hesitation.
Truth is, this isn't a pri case. If the paradic's right, this guy's a lost cause. Bailey's not doubting their call—she's just upholding that doctor's creed: fight to the last second.
Paradics might not have d school degrees, but running calls day in, day out? Their gut's often sharper than a doc's.
Bailey had planned to toss this to soone like chubby George O'Malley for routine practice. But when she spotted Adam, she switched gears. Dead horse, live horse—give it a shot.
If a miracle's gonna happen, Bailey's betting on Adam, not her usual crew. Yesterday, she called him the best intern in front of everyone—no fluff, straight from the gut.
"I've got it!" Adam says, taking over CPR from the paradic.
"Alright," the paradic steps aside, helping push the gurney inside, exhaling hard.
Nonstop compressions? It's skill and stamina. This gig's no joke.
As he catches his breath, he can't help but vent about the crash.
"Poor guy. Driving along, minding his own business, passes a car like normal. Then the nutjob behind him starts chasing him down—swerving like a maniac, hell-bent on catching up.
Get this: the psycho wasn't even drunk—just pissed off. He was yelling at his wife on the phone, saw soone pass him, lost it, and floored it.
Ended up ramming the guy—both crashed. The jerk's just knocked out, but this dude? He's toast."
"He's not dead yet," Adam says, still pressing on the guy's chest. "Longest record for this kind of state is four hours—and they brought him back."
At first, Adam was just going through the motions, treating it like a long shot. But hearing this was another innocent victim? That hit him different.
This is the fourth innocent near-death case he's seen in two months. The first two, he didn't get a chance to help. The third—a gunshot wound like a cannon blast—too far gone, dead despite his efforts.
Now, this fourth one's already got a death sentence from the paradics. Adam's not having it. He's all in—won't quit until the very end.
They say, "Good guys don't live long; bastards stick around forever."
That's bullshit!
"Push 3 mg of epinephrine!"
"Intubate through the trachea!"
"One dose of atropine!"
The nurses snap to it.
"Doc, want to set up the CPR machine?" one asks.
She'd overheard Adam's four-hour survival stat and figures he's in for a marathon—worried he'll burn out doing it by hand.
"No need," Adam says, eyes flicking between the monitor and his rhythm.
In a mont like this, he trusts his own hands over any machine.
A few hours? He can handle it.
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