A/N: Dr. Greene (yes, Mark's daughter from ER) and Cook Co. General Hospital are the property of NBC, John Wells, and the late Michael Crichton.

CHAPTER 3: James

"Save—me darlin'...I-am-down, but I am far from o-o-over...And there's the thing, and Tra-vol-ta jumps o-ver a guy, and the di-rec-tor throws him out!"

That's what I was singing along with on my mp3 player as I got off the bus. And no, those weren't the real words to the song, but that wasn't important right now. Today was my first day of internship at Cook Co. General Hospital. I'd really had my heart set on staying at Northwestern, which is where I'd done my med school rotation. But instead, thanks to some asshole from the dean's office, I was matched here. Oh, well. I had to start somewhere, right?

I arrived at the emergency department of the hospital, along with half a dozen or so of my fellow interns. Like them, I knew it was called Triage, because that's where patients' vitals are checked, then the nurse decides who needs to be seen quickly, and who doesn't. When we arrived in the main part of the ER, we were greeted by the sight of a big bear of a man charging out of one of the exam rooms, blood pouring from a wound on his forehead. Right behind him were his wife, as well as some poor med student who were trying to catch him. "Get that goddamn needle away from me!" he screamed. I, for one, was surprised to see that a man his size was so deathly afraid of something as routine as a shot.

"I told you to get some restraints!" a doctor shouted.

"I did! He just broke right through them!" the student called back.

"It's all right, Clark, they're just trying to help," the patient's wife tried to reassure him, but he wasn't stopping for anybody. He even managed to knock a scrawny little orderly into an old man in a wheelchair, spilling food all over the floor.

"Welcome to the jungle," a janitor with cornrows told us as he passed by.

So, this is how I'm starting my internship, huh? I thought in dread.

Despite the chaos we'd just witnessed, our Chief Resident appeared to meet us. She was a striking young woman who looked about five years older than us with long brown hair in ringlets, and was wearing turquoise scrubs, black-rimmed glasses, and a spotlessly white lab coat.

"Welcome, interns," she greeted us in her subtle, yet very noticeable Midwestern accent. "I'm Dr. Rachel Greene, and as you already know, this is your first day in the ER. And let me be the first to inform you that this is going to be one of the most, if not the most, rewarding and challenging experiences of your lives. You're going to be dealing with real life-and-death situations, where every second will count, and every decision will need to be made with the utmost care. If you have any questions about anything, DO NOT hesitate to ask for help from either myself, one of the Residents, or whoever else is on call, because that's what we're here for. Remember, the only dumb question is the one you don't ask. Finally, your performance here will determine whether or not this is the right specialty for you. With that being said, good luck, do your best, and I hope to see some of you working down here someday. Dismissed."

And with that, we all left to run the gauntlet of our first day in the ER.

Our first stop was to get our pictures taken for our ID badges, and then back to the Admit area, where Dr. Greene handed each of us a tape player. She explained that since she didn't have time to show us around personally, we'd use the tape player with her re-corded voice in it. Boy, the last thing I need is to get lost in this place, I thought as I foll-owed my three friends—Bonnie White, Michael Stevens, and Nathaniel Williams around the department.

The tour was pretty simple, and best of all, none of us got lost. We made our way back to the main desk, where Dr. Greene was waiting for us. When I got there, the first thing I saw was the clear dry-erase board that one of the Residents had pulled down from the ceiling. This was obviously where they wrote down the patients' names, their diagnoses, room number, and treating physician, but it still reminded me of the Jeopardy! board. I don't know about the other interns, but I was almost tempted to say, "Okay, Alex, I'll take Blunt Chest Trauma for $300."

Anyway, like I said, Dr. Greene was waiting for us. "Here you go," I said, handing her the tape player.

"Thank you, Doctor, uh..." she said, surveying the badges in front of her.

"Hobart," I answered.

"Here you are," she remembered, picking up a badge and handing it to me, along with a lab coat from behind the desk. I put the coat on and pinned the badge to the left breast pocket. "You'll find your stethoscopes in the right pocket," she continued as she finished passing out the badges and coats. "You must wear them at all times, because we lose twenty or thirty a year. By the way, who invented the stethoscope?"

One of the guys raised his hand. "Yes, what's your name?"

"Dr. Summers," he answered. "And the stethoscope was invented in 1816 by René Laenec." His tone of voice was a really smug, know-it-all, I'm-getting-in-good-with-the-teacher voice. I turned my head to the right and saw a guy who looked a few inches shorter than me. He had light brown hair with frosted tips and way too much hair gel, an ugly pencil-thin moustache and goatee, and the most arrogant, conceited smirk since Sara Hill—or Sara the Snot, as we called her back in Stoneybrook. None of us kids could stand her.

"Very good," Dr. Greene said. I think all of us were wishing we knew the answer. I know I did. "And don't worry, it'll take me all week to get names and faces sorted out. Anyway, take a break and come find me after lunch. I'll have your Resident assignments then."

With that, we went to the cafeteria. "This is going to be interesting," I told Bonnie and Michael as I sat down with my lunch tray.

Bonnie nodded. We ate our lunch in silence, then returned to the ER. "Okay, as promised, I have your Resident assignments," Dr. Greene said.

My Resident was Dr. Bethany Thornton, a strawberry-blond who was about a head shorter than me with a French braid, and was wearing a bluish-white blouse and dark blue slacks. I felt kind of out of place with her, considering the fact that I was wearing dark blue jeans, black Chuck Taylor high-tops, and a black polo shirt with the Love Never Dies logo on it, which had been my high school graduation present. "G'day, I'm Dr. Hobart," I said, shaking her hand.

"Howdy," she answered. Like Logan Bruno, one of my former baby-sitters, she had a really thick Southern accent. I also noticed a blue-and-white pin shaped like the state of Texas on her coat's left lapel. And you know what? That was the first time I'd ever seen a grown woman wear that much blue, unless it was her favorite color.

"A word of advice on attire," she continued. "Try to dress a little nicer, because you may end up changing into scrubs after one of the patients pukes, pisses, or bleeds on you. I tell you what, if I had a dollar for every time that's happened to me, I could take my whole family to Dollywood."

"Thanks, I'll remember that," I said.

"Come on," she said. Our first stop was Exam One, where we saw a woman who had apparently separated her shoulder when she fell off her motorcycle. We assessed her injury, then sent her down to Radiology. I was glad that she'd been wearing her helmet, or we'd have had a major trauma on our hands.

After we finished, Dr. Thornton asked, "Have you ever started an IV?"

I nodded. "I think so," I answered.

That's when we walked into the next room, where we were met by a severely dehydrated sixteen-year-old boy. "Do you want to do this?" Dr. Thornton asked.

"Sure," I said. All of my experience from my last two years of med school—not only doing it on patients, but also practicing on a plastic arm—really paid off, because when I finished, Dr. Thornton nodded her approval.

"Good job," she said.

"Thanks," I answered. I won't lie to you, I was pretty proud of myself.

As soon as we came out of Exam Two, I heard sounds that could only be a woman in labor, because I remember Mum making those sounds when she was in labor with my youngest brother, John. "This way," Dr. Greene ordered, and we returned to the waiting room.

"What do we got?" Dr. Thornton asked.

"Donna Bolden, thirty-one, full-term labor," the EMT reported. "Contractions are ninety seconds apart, BP's 101/63, pulse 92, GCS normal, fetal heart rate's 138."

"My wife went into labor about twenty minutes ago," Mr. Bolden answered. "We got her over here as fast as we could."

"Okay," Dr. Greene said. "Let's get her to Curtain Area Three." We rushed Mrs. Bolden to the room, where the EMTs moved her to the table and the nurses helped her change clothes and covered her with a blanket as Dr. Greene placed the monitors on her. "Membranes ruptured."

"Oh, God," Mrs. Bolden murmured.

"Okay, just calm down, Mrs. Bolden," Dr. Greene said, putting a yellow gown on over her clothes. "I'm going to check you."

About a minute later, she said, "Well, it looks like you're ten centimeters dilated and at a zero station, so on the next contraction, you're going to push, okay?" Grimacing in pain, Mrs. Bolden nodded.

"Get in there," Dr. Thornton brusquely told me, directing me into the spot beside Dr. Greene and looking over my shoulder. Then, to Mrs. Bolden, she said soothingly, "It's all right. We're going to get you through this, okay, sug'?"

"Here comes the head," I announced as I delivered the baby's head, and Dr. Greene suctioned out the baby's nose and mouth. "Just one more push, okay? We're at the end zone for those six big ones to win."

"SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU DUMB CROC!" Mrs. Bolden exploded. I couldn't help cringing as I remembered the other kids calling me and my brothers that soon after we arrived in America, because they obviously associated Australia with Crocodile Dundee. But I let it slide, because I figured that Mrs. Bolden was under a lot of stress.

Anyway, after I made my football comment, I don't know why, but my mind flashed back to the time that Nick and Margo Pike taught us to play American football. At first, I thought we were going to play soccer, because that's what it's called Down Under. As it turned out, they meant the kind of football that's shown on TV, where juiced-up muscleheads are constantly smashing into each other. And as an added bonus, that wacko Nick jumped on my leg and broke it, which really fucking hurt. Ben later told me that he thought I was being overly dramatic, but Mallory could tell I really was hurt. Thankfully, the two of us remained friends, but that's one episode I still haven't quite forgiven him for to this day.

Okay, back to the delivery. With one loud, long scream, Mrs. Bolden gave one final push. "It's a girl!" Dr. Greene announced as she dried the baby off and we heard the first cry. Dr. Thornton cut the umbilical cord, and I'd just put the baby in the warmer when I heard, "Oh, shit."

"What?" Dr. Thornton asked.

"Look," Dr. Greene said. "Her uterus has started to come out, too. We need to hurry." She ran to the phone to page OB and Surgery.

Then I felt it. My stomach. Why the bloody hell did I have those buckwheat pan-cakes for brecky? "I think I'm going to be sick," I spoke up.

"Oh, my God, I think I'm having another one!" Mrs. Bolden screamed hysterically.

"No, honey, that's just the placenta," one of the nurses said.

"Oh, I know I'm going to be sick!" I groaned.

"Okay, Dr. Hobart, step outside," Dr. Thornton said.

Nodding feebly, I took off my yellow gown, threw it on the counter, and ran out of the room. All the while, I was sure that everybody else would've given me hell for how I was feeling. As for how I managed to make it all the way down the hall without my legs turning to Jell-O, search me, mate.

I was sitting outside on a bench near the ambulance bay, trying to get my head together, and gulping down numerous cups of cold water, when I heard Dr. Greene's voice ask, "Are you all right?"

"I thought I was going to be sick," I said. "Jesus, I thought I was well past that part by now."

"You don't need to be ashamed," Dr. Greene assured me. "I've been there myself. Hell, I've been doing this for about eight years, and I still get sick every once in a while." I started to look up at her, then as she knelt in front of me, she said, "It's best if you keep your head down."

"How's Mrs. Bolden?" I managed to ask as I lowered my head.

"Well, we just paged Dr. Klein from OB, and he's examining her now. For the most part, she's stable. But they think she might need a hysterectomy. On a more upnote, their baby, which they have named Teresa, is fine." Dr. Greene was silent for a moment, then she asked, "Dr. Hobart, why did you become a doctor?"

Like we couldn't have seen that one coming, I thought. I wondered if asking that question ws par for the course in this hospital, or the medical field in general.

"Well, my family and I moved to America from Australia when I was eight, and we settled in Connecticut," I began. "Until then, I only knew about rugby, and the only football I knew was soccer. One summer, my brothers and I were playing with some friends of ours, and they decided to teach us American football. I broke my leg, and had to spend the summer in a cast."

"That must have sucked, huh?" Dr. Greene asked.

"Yeah, at first, but my favorite baby-sitters decided to cheer me up by having a Christmas in Summer party. Granted, it made me homesick for Australia, because that's when we have Christmas there, but it was just the right thing to keep my mind off the pain."

"That was nice of them. Is that why you became a doctor?"

I nodded. "I still can't believe I didn't get killed playing it. My sister-in-law says if you can get killed playing it, then it isn't a sport."

Dr. Greene stood up and said, "Let me tell you a little about myself. My parents divorced when I was seven. Dad relocated to Chicago from Milwaukee, where we'd lived, so he wouldn't have to commute every day, and also because he'd found himself an apartment here. I'd see him every other weekend, and call him on Saturdays the rest of the time. Mom remarried almost immediately, and we moved to St. Louis when I was nine. Dad remarried when I was thirteen, and my half-sister, who's now a senior in high school, was born a month later. Dad was also a doctor—at this hospital, mind you—and he died of a brain tumor the following year. I still have a letter he'd written me before he died, which I opened when I graduated from high school, and Ella, my half-sister, I'm told, opened hers on her sixteenth birthday. Anyway, he told me that there are two kinds of doctors. There are the kind who get rid of their feelings, and the kind who hold onto them." She paused for a moment, then continued, "If you're going to hold onto your feelings, you're going to get sick from time to time. That's just how it goes. You know, people come in here, and they're either sick or bleeding, sometimes they're dying, and it's our job to help them. And helping them is more important than how we feel. Okay?"

"Okay," I whispered as I nodded.

Before Dr. Greene hurried back inside, she said, "By the way, I went to med school with Dr. Thornton, and she got sick a lot more than I did, so don't let her give you any crap about it."

"Right," I said, stifling a laugh. As funny as that little anecdote was, I could still tell she knew what she was talking about.

Okay, I'm ready, I thought as I finished the last sip of water. I coughed, cleared my throat, and hung my stethoscope across the back of my neck. Please, God, don't let me get sick again.