Page 1 of Christmas at Watson Memorial

Chapter 1

Alexia

In less than an hour, I'll crack open an eight-year-old boy's chest and stop his heart. The thought sends a familiar chill down my spine — different from the December frost biting at my cheeks as I hurry through the New York streets toward the hospital.

Glass doors whoosh as I stride through the rotating entrance, my mind already fixed on Kai Chen's face. His shy smile during pre-op haunts me, along with his parents' trembling hands as they signed consent forms without reading a word. I inhale deeply, mentally walking through each surgical step while my fingers find my lucky pen — another irrational habit that's stubbornly survived years of scientific training.

“Morning, Dr. Winters,” one of the surgical nurses calls out as I enter the OR.

I manage a curt nod. Small talk is just noise right now, as annoying as the Christmas carol Dr. Rodriguez hums when I'm about to make my first incision.

“Can you shut up? They pay you to keep patients sedated and monitor vitals, not butcher holiday tunes,” I snap.

Miguel clasps his hands in mock prayer. Outside this room, he might be the closest thing I have to a friend, but he knows I need silence to work. I'll never understand how other surgeons operate to music, especially Dr. Arya Kumari with her blasting heavy metal.

The steady beep of monitors centers me as we crack through the sternum, exposing the heart for better access. My hands steady, my breath even.

“Mom's making her famous tamales for Christmas Eve,” Miguel whispers to one of the nurses.

“Just shut up! Suction here,” I command.

Someone sighs. I can picture the eye-rolls, the shrugs, maybe even the younger surgeons mocking me behind their masks. Wouldn't be the first time.

“Vitals?” I ask, eyes locked on my suture.

“All stable. BP 110/70, heart rate 75. Oxygen sat 98%.”

“Need more gauze, Dr. Winters?”

“Yes, two more. We'll irrigate the area,” I respond mechanically.

When I tie off the final suture, my satisfaction remains clinical and distant. Another successful surgery. Another life saved. It's what I went to med school for. It's my job. Unlike Dr. Kumari, I don't feel compelled to drag my team out for celebratory beers.

***

Four-thirty PM, and these hospital corridors feel like a gauntlet. I'm trying to reach Holly Thomson in 305, but in this damn place, you can't walk ten feet without someone ambushing you with pointless questions.

“Alexia, can I put you down for the Christmas dinner this year?” Dr. Jackie Stone practically jogs behind me, her shoes squeaking against the polished floor.

“No.”

“Everyone's coming! We're raising money for the sick children's presents and-”

“I said no,” I cut her off, my voice sharper than intended, but this woman never takes a hint.

I reach room 305 before Stone can utter another word. Holly sits cross-legged on her bed, her blonde hair a wild mess, her skin a shade paler than yesterday, spinning tales about Christmas elves to her mother.

“Dr. Winters!” Her endless smile lights up the room, showing off her fresh gap where a tooth fell out yesterday.

“How are you feeling today, Holly?”

“Have you seen the Christmas elves at Watson Memorial? Dr. Arya Kumari says they show up on Christmas Eve with presents for all the sick kids.”

“Dr. Kumari says a lot of things,” I mutter while checking her vitals.

“She says they've got so much magic they help doctors heal kids on Christmas.”

“Take a deep breath and stop talking,” I press my stethoscope to her chest.