Chapter 2 Late Start

The sound of Camille's alarm blaring in her little room was more of an intrusion into her disturbed hours of sleep. She grunted, asleep, with eyes still closed, groping for the phone on her nightstand, fingers fumbling for some time until silence fell. 7:42 A.M.

Her eyes widened.

7:42?!

Then, suddenly, she sat straight up in bed, thinking of the hospital shift that would start exactly at 8:00 sharp. Which meant she had only eighteen minutes to dress, gather her things, and find her way to work without Dr. Nathaniel Carter, her arrogant, condescending, and impossible-to-please supervisor, skinning her alive for being late.

Camille all but tumbled out of bed, her heart racing as she dashed into the bathroom. She switched on the tap, splashed cold water onto her face, and commenced short but frantic movements with a toothbrush to clean her teeth. There was no time for make-up or breakfast; only survival marked her list of priorities.

She yanked her closet door open, took hold of a clean pair of scrubs, then jumped around her small room tugging them over her head. Where was her coat? Where was her ID badge? Papers and textbooks were shoved around as panic turned into a frenzy until she finally spotted them draped on the back of her desk chair.

She grabbed her coat and bag in combination, deciding her sneakers were acceptable before dashing for the door.

Once outside, the musty air of the city slapped her in the face. New York in July is cruel, the kind of heat that clings and suffocates. Barely apt to notice her breaths, the moment Camille hails the taxi, the hissing word escapes her mouth.

"Saint Vincent's Hospital!" In a snap, she slipped through the back seat, fastening her seat belt.

The driver was an old man with tired eyes, who gave a slow nod and pulled out into traffic. But any glimmer of pity that might have existed in the universe for her was gone; there was a full-blown rush hour taking place at that moment.

Camille nervously drummed her fingers against her knee while her foot tapped impatiently on the cab floor. Already, she could hear Dr. Carter's cutting tone, full of disappointment.

"You're late yet again," Hart said. "Do you think this is some kind of joke?"

Her stomach twisted at the thought.

She hated working under him. He had an uncanny ability to make anyone he worked with feel like they could hardly breathe on their own. No praise; no patience-barely impossible expectations.

As soon as the taxi came to a halt at the curb of the hospital, Camille handed the driver a twenty and fled through the doors.

.

.

.

The clinic lobby was alive with energy. Nurses moved down the halls, patients occupied the waiting area, while the few doctors assembled by the reception desk, poring over their case files.

Camille slipped past a nurse carrying a tray of vials, heart pounding, and made a running start toward the staff room, hoping to blend in unnoticed.

She wasn't so lucky.

Dr. Nathaniel Carter's deep and authoritative voice cleaved through the noise like a knife.

"Hart. You're late."

Camille froze. Straining to turn slowly, she felt her stomach drop at the sight of the supervisor by the nurse's station with arms crossed, an unmistakably disapproving frown set on his sharp, clean-cut visage.

Dr. Carter seemed to be around thirty years old, and yet he bore himself like a man who had never once tasted defeat. Dapperly dressed in every way, stylishly composed, and always expectant of nothing but perfection from everyone else in his presence.

Camille steeled herself.

"Do you know what time it is?" he said with unnerving calmness, cloaked with an undercurrent of danger.

She swallowed. "I....."

"Eight seventeen," he said, tilting his head slightly. "That's seventeen past the hour you're meant to be here, Hart. I guess you have a fantastic excuse?"

Camille gritted her teeth. No. No excuse. Just exhaustion and a nasty habit of writing letters to forgotten souls.

"I overslept," she admitted, her voice calm.

Dr. Carter sighed as if she had personally ruined his morning.

"You're an intern," Hart said. Not some junior high kid who can afford to waste time." He stepped closer and lowered his voice enough to reach her ear. "If you cannot handle the responsibility, there are plenty of others who can."

The words were sharp but expected.

"I can take it," she said as she tightened her fists against her sides.

He left her with a long assessing look.

Then, with a nonchalant shrug, he indicated the towering piles of files on the nurse's desk.

"You are on patient rounds today. Do not screw it up."

And then turning, he walked away as if he had already forgotten her.

Camille exhaled sharply, struggling against the urge to mumble something inappropriate under her breath.

"Youch."

She spun around to see Mia standing close enough to watch it all unfold and wince sympathetically.

Ever since the first year of medical school, Mia has been Camille's best friend-a vibrant, sharp-witted blonde with a heart of gold and a terribly stubborn disposition for finding humor even in the blackest of situations.

"I swear, that man needs to get a hobby." Mia folded her arms. "He thinks he was born in a hospital and never left."

Camille sighed and ran a hand through her dark hair: "I don't think he sleeps. He just lurks around waiting for me to make a mistake."

Mia smirked. "Well, you do make it easy for him when you show up late."

"Don't start."

"Relax, I brought you coffee." Mia then handed her a steaming cup from the nurse's station. "Though I was planning to bribe you with it if you were in an extra-bad mood."

Camille thankfully drank from the cup full of rich aroma, then sipped. "You are a lifesaver."

"I will try." Mia bumped her shoulder. "Now go do your rounds before he finds another reason to hate you."

Holding her case file, Camille walked through the clinic hallways, checking patients. She was indeed good at connecting with those people, making them feel heard.

Her first patient, Mr. Calloway, a 72-year-old retired professor who loved telling awful jokes, said, "Miss Hart! "Late again, I see," meeting her with a wide-toothed grin.

"Please don't tell me even the patients know," Camille groaned.

"You're predictable," came his chuckle while checking his vitals-with irritation from Dr. Carter faded slowly as this is how most of her work involves.

As she wrapped her rounds and proceeded to examine her last patient, however, she froze just a step outside one of the examination rooms.

Her heart fluttered in a single beat.

The name file in her hands punched her gut deep down.

Adrian Vaughn .

At that instant, Camille could breathe.

The entire world around her swam, with the name almost choking her in emotions that exploded through her body; it simply had to be a coincidence. After all, Adrian Vaughn had to be a common enough name, right?

It wasn't him. It couldn't be.

Fingers trembling, she reached for the doorknob, her heartbeat hammering in her ears.

Then pushed it open.

As her eyes fell on the man lying on the hospital bed, her breath caught.

It was him.

Adrian.

Seven years. That was the amount of time since she had last seen him. Seven years since he had last disappeared without a single word.

But now, there he was, alive, real, and sitting right in front of her.

Adrian turned his head, stormy blue eyes locking onto hers. And for a heartbeat, time stood still.

Camille gripped the clipboard in her hands, fighting to regain her balance.

Adrian blinked. Then, with an expression that was almost unreadable, and a very deliberate tone, she repeated her name.

"Camille."