Medical Center
The middle-aged doctor felt a little insulted.
But, well, tough luck.
Dr. Shepherd checked the patient's pupils, tested her response to external stimuli, and glanced at the chart on the stretcher.
"She's got a tumor on her brainstem, right? I don't see an MRI here. We'd need an EEG to confirm brain death."
"Yeah, Dr. Hans said he already did it," the middle-aged doctor said, trying to defend himself.
His tone wasn't exactly confident, though.
You talk differently depending on who you're dealing with.
Basic survival skill.
"I don't know any Dr. Hans," Dr. Shepherd cut in. "They've already ignored the brain's involuntary responses. Who knows what else they've overlooked!"
"There are six patients across three states waiting for this woman's organs," the middle-aged doctor pointed out.
"If those organs come from someone who's brain-dead, I'm sure they'd be thrilled. But she's not dead yet," Dr. Shepherd shot back sarcastically.
"No one touches her while she's still alive."
The middle-aged doctor dropped the act and laid his cards on the table.
He just wanted to stall until the patient was completely gone.
Because if she got resuscitated, not only would his organ extraction plan fall apart, but his buddy Dr. Hans might be in hot water too.
After all, Hans hadn't even bothered with an MRI and ignored the patient's involuntary brain activity before declaring her brain-dead.
If the family dug into it later, it'd be a massive headache.
But if they could just drag this out and let her slip into full brain death, their approach would be flawless.
No one could prove she could've been saved.
And the whole thing would probably blow over.
"Everything okay here?"
George walked in with Dr. Burke in tow.
Adam had already clocked the middle-aged doctor's stalling game. When George got back, Adam had tipped him off to grab Dr. Burke.
As the acting surgical chief, Dr. Burke had the final say around here.
"This donor isn't fully brain-dead yet. I want to run an MRI and an EEG," Dr. Shepherd explained.
"That's a waste of time," the middle-aged doctor said, making one last ditch effort.
"I insist," Dr. Shepherd said firmly.
"You insist?"
Dr. Burke flipped through the chart and gave him a look.
"Yes!" Dr. Shepherd nodded.
"If my top neurosurgery attending says he needs an MRI and an EEG, then he's doing it," Dr. Burke said, snapping the chart shut and making it final.
"But we've got other patients—"
The middle-aged doctor thought he could still salvage this.
"Don't care," Dr. Burke interrupted, hands on hips. "Who gets the organs? That's up to the organ-sharing network.
Who donates them? That's up to her and her family.
I've got someone in the OR waiting for a liver—maybe they don't even deserve it, but that's not my call either.
So what do I control?
Everything else!"
Faced with that kind of badass energy, the middle-aged doctor gave up entirely.
It's not that he didn't try, man.
"She's all yours, Dr. Shepherd," Dr. Burke said.
"Thank you, Dr. Burke."
Dr. Burke smirked, soaking in the middle-aged doctor's helpless silence and his rival's gratitude.
This was the taste of power.
Better than anything else.
It reminded him of what Richard's wife had said when she came to pack up her husband's stuff and move him home to recover. She'd stared at him sitting in the chief's office chair and laid it out:
"I hope he's forced to retire. That's tempting for you, isn't it? We all want that. This job fits you, Preston. You're independent, a workaholic— the hospital and this gig are enough for you, right?"
He hadn't answered her.
But the answer was obviously "yes" to all of it.
"Dr. Duncan, want to assist with the MRI?" Dr. Shepherd asked, glancing at Adam and George.
"Absolutely," Adam said with a nod.
Mr. Dean hadn't been brain-dead, and now here was a case teetering on the edge of it— a golden learning opportunity handed to him on a platter.
George looked a little down but didn't argue.
Sure, he'd been the one to take the case and run around getting Adam, Dr. Shepherd, and Dr. Burke, but it was Adam and the others who'd actually made the difference.
He'd chickened out when it mattered.
Just then, a chart caught his eye.
"O'Malley, you're in too," Dr. Shepherd said, handing it over and clapping him on the shoulder.
"Yes!"
George lit up.
What's better than a pat on the back from a senior doc?
Adam grinned from the sidelines.
He got it.
It was like back in his old life, writing web novels and obsessing over his editor's every move— caring more about her than a girlfriend.
He wouldn't dare bug her unless something was up, and even then, he'd tiptoe around it.
Is she online?
Maybe I'll wait till 9 to message her.
Nah, 10's safer. Don't wanna bother her.
How do I word this?
Why hasn't she replied?
Should I follow up?
Still no reply…
Oh! She's back! She's back! She's back!
She's kinda cold, but man, she's a great editor!
Yeah… that level of humble.
MRI Room
"See that tumor on her brainstem?" Dr. Shepherd said with a smile.
"Looks rough," George said, staring at the scan.
"But her brain's still alive—and treatable," Adam added.
"Exactly! Remove the tumor, and she's got a solid shot at recovery," Dr. Shepherd said, nodding. He turned to the organ retrieval team hovering nearby. "You guys can head out. I'm the only one operating on her today."
The middle-aged doctor's team grabbed their coolers and shuffled off, defeated.
"Dr. Duncan, you don't seem too happy?" Dr. Shepherd said, noticing Adam's serious expression.
"No, I'm happy for her," Adam said, shaking his head. "Just thinking about something."
"What's that?" George blurted out.
"When she wakes up, will she tear up that organ donor agreement on the spot?" Adam sighed.
Dr. Shepherd and George froze, their smiles fading.
People who sign up to donate organs are, in theory, good folks.
Their organs can save thousands suffering from pain or facing death— a pretty selfless, noble act.
But once you sign that "donate after death" form, the risk of dying somehow spikes for reasons no one talks about.
And if crap like this keeps happening, who's gonna keep signing up?
OB-GYN Department
Rachel finished her checkup.
"What'd the doctor say?" Adam asked.
"Everything's good," Rachel said with a smile. "Hey, what's this?"
"A gift for you," Adam said, handing her a wrapped box.
"'The right medicine for a speedy recovery'?" Rachel read the note he'd written, grinning. "Aw, thanks, Adam!"
"No problem," Adam said, straight-faced. "Hope you like it."
"I'm sure I will," Rachel said, fiddling with the box. "What is it?"
"Open it at home. More fun that way," Adam said, stopping her.
"Give me a hint at least!" Rachel shook the box. "What color?"
"…" Adam's lip twitched. "Uh… black?" he guessed.
He hadn't bought it himself, so he had no clue.
But as a psych grad who'd read his share of psych books, he figured Tool #3 picked something based on "your preferences"—and he made an educated guess.
After all…
Escape from Get Out Town, anyone?