𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐏𝐇𝐎𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐗 ━━ 𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐤 𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐝

seventy | will

"Dr. Phoenix? Can you hear me?"

"Um, yeah."

I force myself to look away from the window, ignoring the blatant sirens of multiple ambulances headed east — right in the direction of the hospital.

"Sorry, what were you saying?"

"Your father's will. Had he mentioned a name or organization other than yours we would have scheduled a formal reading."

The numb feeling erupted when I had stopped early in the morning six days ago, two hot chocolates and half a dozen freshly frosted cinnamon rolls in hand.

- - - - - - - - - -

"Brought you your favorite, Dad."

Usually awake by eight in the morning, seeing him still laying in bed with his eyes shut sends a chill down my spine.

"Dad?"

Hope remains as I cautiously approach his bedside, knowing how much he hates to be woken up. Two fingertips press against the skin just under his jaw and wait for the swift pumping of a pulse.

But to no avail, I'm met with silence.

Tears prick my eyes, and I take a step back.

My chest rises and falls with each gasping breath, as if the oxygen had been vacuumed out of the surrounding air. My knees give out from underneath me, and I fall to the ground in the first of many pained sobs.

"Why did you leave me, Dad?"

- - - - - - - - - -

"We can reschedule this for another day if you'd like, Dr. Phoenix."

Dad's estate attorney and longtime friend, Grant Tenor, flashes a sympathetic smile while he holds the piece of paper connecting me to my dad.

And for that very reason — that forced smile with pitying eyes — is why I have yet to tell anyone of his passing.

"I can't. I'm due back at the hospital in two hours, and I can't take any more days off."

"You still haven't told them? Why not?"

"You're not a therapist, Grant."

The elderly man pushes wisps of grey hair back over his forehead and glances through the writing on the paper.

"Well, he already told you he's left you with everything, and the will holds that to be true." He folds his hands. "I can handle the rest, if you want me to."

A second ambulance whizzes past, followed by another.

"Sure, that'd be great. I have to go now."

"Dr. Phoenix —"

In the waiting area, two television screens mounted to the overhead wall play the same news report:

". . .major Seattle area shooting. We have reports that a gunman has opened fire on students and faculty of Pacific College. We now take you live to our on-scene reporter."

"Damn it."

- - - - - - - - - -

"Torres, O.R. two, right now! 9-1-1!"

Arizona, fresh from her trip to Africa, cuts through the E.R. in high speed towards the O.R. wing, leaving Callie to stare into space.

"Uh. . ."

"I've got him."

I grab the nearest pair of clean latex gloves before stopping beside the attending.

"This is, uh, Chuck Fowler. He's twenty-one years old, zone two injury of the neck, secondary to graze G.S.W.. He has a hematoma, and C.T. angio has been ordered. Thank you."

My lips curve into a forced smile. "How are you, Chuck?"

"Who walks into a classroom with an automatic weapon? Who does that?" He turns his head as best as he can.

"I. . .I don't know." The words stammer. "But I'm going in."

More patients come in than the hospital has room for, resulting in the less emergent patients being transported to outpatient recovery.

"Just doing a vascular repair on you. . .which you should be fine with since you're unconscious."

I glance back to see Jackson slipping into a gown overtop his scrubs.

"Once you're done with that, think I can get a hand in here?"

"Yeah."

He approaches the table.

"We're doing an arterial repair. Hold that for me, will you?"

"Got it."

I release a short breath. "How's your grandfather doing? My dad had been asking about him recently."

"Pretty good, other than still being a pretentious ass." Jackson feigns a scoff. "What about your dad? Still doing okay?"

"Um. . .yeah. He is."

And the tears I'd managed to hold back the last few days burn the inner corners of my eyes, forcing me to choke back a sob.

"Leven?"

"He's —"

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

The monitor beeps, and Jackson quickly switches to compressions.

"Damn it, someone bring me a crash cart over here!"

Cotton padding stuffs against the nearly repaired artery, in case of another bleed.

"You do not die on me, Chuck. Got it?"

I squeeze gel over the two paddles before rubbing them together.

"Don't you dare let the shooter win this."

The paddles are placed over the designated areas.

"Clear!"

Not one, not two, but three times. It takes three times for the paddles to bring him back, to bring his heart rate back.

". . .how long has it been, Leven?"

"Six days. Six long days."

Night falls among the city of Seattle, family awaits news in the waiting room, and the surgeons work tirelessly to save each and every life.

"Lev."

Out on the catwalk, members of the Pacific College community hold candles and sing their alma mater repeatedly.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Tears that hadn't stopped since voicing the truth earlier continue a steady stream, replacing the stains with fresh ones.

"Everyone was finally recovering from the shooting six months ago. We were all happy. And I didn't want to bring that down."

Derek holds me taut against his form, allowing me to dampen his dark blue scrubs.

"You. . .you've been holding everyone up." He gently whispers. "You amaze me, and you inspire me. . .every single day."

My hands curl into my chest. "Thank you for taking Cristina fishing."

"There's no need to thank me."

"But there is. She's in O.R. one."

- - - - - - - - - -

Twenty-six patients. Twenty-six patients were seen in the hospital, and all twenty-six are due to make successful recoveries.

And twelve surgeons sit in the gallery of O.R. one as two surgeons close the last of the patients.

The surgery ends, and Cristina, Meredith, and I meet in a hallway. A silence falls upon us, where something should be said.

But no one opens their mouths.

"Do you guys wanna get a drink?"

"Yeah, I do."

"As long as it's not non-alcoholic wine."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"We'll tell you at Joe's."