Page 192 of The Doctors Will See You Now

I almost rolled my eyes at all of this cloak-and-dagger stuff, but she’d given me specific instructions that they didn’t use the mayor’s name on reservations for obvious reasons.

I just couldn’t believe I, Scott Shepard, had reason to be meeting with someone important enough to have a hidden identity.

“Of course,” the hostess said, her eyes flashing with recognition for me—another thing I’d never get completely used to. “Right this way.”

We stepped away from the podium and weaved our way through tight tables to the back of the space behind an almost partition that gave at least the illusion of privacy. But the truth was, the whole restaurant was no more than fifteen hundred square feet at most, and probably every fucking body in there would be able to hear every word we spoke—if they wanted to.

“Here we are,” the hostess said as we made it to the table and both Pam and the mayor stood to shake my hand. I reached to take the mayor’s first just to avoid awkward physical contact with Pamela for as long as possible, when the hostess put a soft hand to my arm and interrupted.

I turned my gaze directly to her as she spoke. “I’m so sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to say, Dr. Er…Dr. Shepard…that…I love you on the show.” She blushed a little. “You’re always so much fun, but I can really tell you’re invested in the patients too.”

I smiled. Sometimes I forgot the last episodes of the show were still airing. I’d stopped watching around the fifth one. I knew all I needed to about how they were trying to portray me, and I didn’t have anyone to prove anything to.

Though, it’d be nice if the mayor took me seriously today.

Trying to speed things up, I did my best to be gracious but brief. “Thanks. I’m really glad you’re enjoying it. Never hesitate to say hello if you see me out in the city.”

She giggled. “Oh, you bet. I definitely will.”

“Thanks, Alyssa,” the mayor said, clearly knowing her by name and clearly dismissing her. My eyebrows pulled together, but I shook it off and took his still extended hand.

“Scott,” he greeted. “Nice to finally meet you.”

“You too, Mr. Mayor.”

He laughed, a little haughty, but mostly warm. It was a completely odd combination. “Call me Brent.”

“Okay.”

Quickly, I turned to Pam and shook her hand. “Nice to see you, Pam.”

She smiled and blushed, and I tried not to cringe. “Scott.”

I wasn’t usually one for regrets, but man, the taste of it was bitter in my mouth when it came to Pam.

“Well, let’s sit down,” Brent instructed. “Get started.” He took his seat again.

“Pam was telling me some of the details of why you wanted this meeting, but I’d rather hear it from you. What can I do to help you, Scott?”

It was weird listening to him speak as though rehearsed. When I actually looked at him, something I’d never really done while he was on TV, I realized he had to be a couple of years younger than me, but he never looked it because of all of the authority he not only had, but wielded effortlessly.

I took my seat and dropped my napkin in my lap, trying to gather my thoughts and get started. “Well, as you probably know, I’m head of the Emergency Department at St. Luke’s Hospital.”

“I’m familiar,” he interrupted. “Dr. Erotic, right?”

His tone didn’t sound outright derogatory, but there was a hint of something there I didn’t know if I liked. Though, his face was open and friendly, so I decided not to focus on it.

“Well, I’ve got ten years in on the floor there, and I’ve seen some of the craziest stuff you can imagine. Not only everyday stuff, but I’ve actually been on shift for almost every major casualty event since I started, and one thing has always been the same. The protocol for managing the care of victims in such an event and the structure with which patients are explicitly outlined for next-of-care is horrendously impractical. I understand the urgency in triaging and treating the victims of mass casualty events, but we don’t have enough funding or enough staff to properly prioritize both patients from the event and those with outside injuries. And the current policy we’re working from makes us choose.” I tilted my head and admitted, “Actually, it chooses for us. No trauma—even a gunshot wound to the chest—according to what’s written in your current health policy, is as high priority as any and all victims of a terrorist attack. I imagine the intent is in no way malicious and strongly built to assure the citizens of the city’s commitment to public safety, but not only does it put patients at risk needlessly, it downplays any and all need for patient care that arises from a cause outside of said ‘event.’”

“Oh, is that all?” he asked jokingly. I barely even cracked a smile because, quite frankly, no, that wasn’t all.

“Not exactly. There’s also a serious lack of training—”

“I’d think that would be on you, as the head of the department, wouldn’t it?”

“Of course,” I agreed, even though I didn’t like what he was insinuating. “But it’s also on you. Without funding and detailed written changes to the actual public health policy in place, I have very little opportunity and resources to do my job efficiently.”

“Again, that sounds like something within the hospital.”