Page 2 of Alphas Like Us

To helppeople.

Now I’m willing to just hand over an emergency cric and tubethoracostomy.

I want to blame it on my 28-hour shift, but I’ve had much longer shifts and been more tired thanthis.

When I enter the locker room, I shut the door, drowning out the commotion. Cedar lockers line every inch of wall; most cubbies house white coats, extra clothes, toiletries, some books andsnacks.

I find mine in acorner.

It takes me a couple minutes to change out of my scrubs and into aSmashing PumpkinsV-neck and black pants. My mind tries to reel, but I’ve done a great job most of my life not overthinkingshit.

I’m not startingnow.

By the time I pocket my keys and grab my motorcycle helmet, my phone rings. I check the Caller ID and then put the cell to my ear. “What do youneed?”

My father rarely calls to shoot the shit, and I’d rather cut to thechase.

I hear him rustling through papers. “What rotation do you have this week?” he asks, his tone warm and relaxed. One of the many reasons why the three famous families (Hales, Meadows, Cobalts)—his patients—essentially lovehim.

He even has a small ponytail and drinks fucking mint juleps and mojitos on the weekend, but simply put, he’s not a laidback, soon-to-be-retired physician. He’s constantly working, and I can hardly picture my father hanging up the whitecoat.

I sling my backpack strap over my shoulder. “ED.”

He knows that stands foremergency department.“Does your shift end soon?” He must be typing on a laptop, keysclick clickclick.

“Just ended.” I shut mylocker.

“I’m in Spain for theweek—”

“I heard,” I cut him off. “Ryke Meadows is climbing a five-hundred-foot cliff.” He’s a skilled professional climber, but the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts like to ensure if the worst happens, their concierge doctor ispresent.

“Right,” my father says a little bit distantly, his attention split. “I got a call, and you’re indistance.”

Finally, we’ve reached the point. “Call” means “medical emergency.” And I know exactly where this conversation isgoing.

I lean my shoulder casually on my locker. “I just got off a twenty-eight hour shift. Ask Uncle Trip to take yourcalls.”

“He’s here with me inSpain.”

I roll my eyes.Shit.“I’m not a conciergedoctor.”

“You will be after you’re board-certified,” he says more clearly, loudly—assertively. “You’ve joined me on enough calls. Think of this as a test-run for when you take over as their primaryphysician.”

I shake my head oninstinct.

I know what I want tosay.

Iquit.

Twowords.

Two words that I should be able to spit out. I can tell the old manfuck youfine, but I can’t sayIquit.

It has more to do with me than my father. Once I tell him that I want to quit my residency and change career fields, I have to be sure that I’m ready. I have to be able to burn the white coat and be completelysatisfied.

I can’t vacillate betweenmaybeandI don’t know.I have to fucking know. Or else my father will try to convince me to stay, and I need to confidently shut that shitdown.

He’s the gateway to my freedom from medicine. From a generational legacy that has consumed me for an entire lifetime. Once I open that gate, I need to walk through and never turn backaround.