Crowed (Team Zero #2) by Rina Kent

I hate that look. I hate being put under the microscope. I hate that they expect me to burst down in tears any second.

I attempt to continue rolling my cart when Xavier blocks my path again. “Wait. How about I lend you?”

My fingers become sweaty with humiliation and disgrace. “No, thank you. I’m already indebted to you as it is.”

“I rented my house by the beach for the summer, so I’ll be making some extra money.” He puts his hand on my arm again. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

Slowly, I pull my arm from underneath his. “Thanks, Dr Leroux, but I’ll figure it out myself.”

“It’s Xavier!” He calls as I hasten my way down the hall and to the call room. The clock reads 2 a.m.

My colleague, Céline, is fast asleep in the tiny bed. Her red curls cover her forehead as she tosses to her side, mumbling something about Nora – her newborn baby girl. My heart warms. It’s been a faded dream of mine to have a daughter and be a mother like Maman was to me, but motherhood isn’t for me.

Céline’s been over the moon since giving birth to Nora, but it’s not always rainbows. Not only does she work night shifts, but she also has to take care of her daughter and married life during the day. She’s the closest thing to a friend I have, and I’m often tempted to touch her arm and ask for help.

Tell her that I’m barely existing, that I think about death more than about life. That every day is a chore I have to get through.

But Céline is leading a stressful life as it is. She sometimes bursts into tears from too much anxiety. I can’t add my useless problems to her burdens. So I let her sleep as much as possible at our night shifts. It’s the least I can do after all the support she’s given me during Maman’s fight with cancer.

I sit at the dimly-lit desk with a cup of instant coffee, mulling over Xavier’s words. Something he’s said piqued my interest.

Rent.

If I rent the second storey of my house, that’s hardly used anyway, I’ll get extra money to feed the bank aside from my salary. That way, there won’t be any confiscation of property.

I hate to bring a stranger into my family’s home – Papa’s legacy – but it’s better than losing it altogether.

With determination bubbling in my veins, I go through sites to check the pricing. Similar historical houses earn thousands of euros per month in summer. Thousands!

Mon Dieu.

How come I never thought of this before? It’s the perfect opportunity to save my family’s home and pay the rest of my debts.

I select a few pictures of the house on my phone and post them on the website. Once I finish work, I’ll also head to the estate agents in town.

The call button on the wall flashes red with an emergency.

Céline is still in dreamland. Since I don’t sleep anyway, might as well let her enjoy hers.

I finish my coffee in one gulp and rush down the hallway. Dr Bernard and two bloc opératoire technicians follow suit. Why didn’t Xavier come out? Did he miss the call?

The paramedics bolt through the double doors, rolling in a cart on which lies a large unconscious man. Blood gushes from his upper shoulder, filters through the paramedics’ hands, and drips on the white tiles.

I’m the first to arrive and the two paramedics are struggling to control the breathing mask. I hop on the cart, straddle the man’s chest, knees on either side of him without touching. I take the breathing mask from the paramedic as they roll the cart down the aisle towards Dr Bernard.

The paramedic recites, “Male. Mid to late-thirties. Gunshot. Sucking wound. Bradycardia. Pulse below 80. Found unconscious. First aids have been applied, but the bleeding won’t stop.”

A gunshot in France? Those only happen in films.

Dr Bernard barks orders to prepare the operating room. We all scrub up and join him. Although the patient loses a lot of blood, we have a stock of B+ positive and therefore, the operation goes smoothly.

Once we’re done, and we’re out of the OR, Dr Bernard removes his cap, his sleeked grey hair sticks to the side of his face with sweat. “I need to speak to the police. They must’ve arrived by now. It’s possibly some gangsters’ war.”

But our town is too peaceful for that. It’s more touristy than anything, actually.

“Check his vitals every hour,” Dr Bernard tells me as the OR technicians transport the patient to the recovery room. “No more morphine until further notice. I need to see the test results first.”

I wince. The patient will be in a lot of pain without morphine.

After washing up, I head back to the call room. Exhausted. That was an unexpected turn of events on a night shift.

Céline remains in a deep sleep. I shake my head and cover her with the little sheet. She’s lucky the chief rarely does any rounds at night.

An hour later, I roll my cart to the recovery unit. Police officers stand at the front like blocks of bricks. They check my cart before letting me in. They’re not allowed inside the unit. This highly sterile area is for those out of surgeries and it needs to be completely silent and clean. Besides, no one in the recovery unit can pose a threat. They’re all under anaesthesia.

In the sterilised area, I gather my hair in a cap, wash my hands again, put on sterilised papery scrubs, wear gloves, and stroll inside.