Stars in Your Eyes (Queen/Roger Taylor)

22. Skylar

Tammy winces as I place the stethoscope on her back.

"Sorry, it's a bit cold," I murmur as soothingly as possible. The 5-year-old is struggling to breathe, her chest heaving as her terrified mother holds her. I tune out the noise in the room as I listen intently to her lungs. Just as I'd feared, there's a rattling sound beneath the wheezing as she struggles to breathe. The obvious diagnosis is pneumonia, but my gut tells me that something else is going on.

Flipping through her medical history, I shake my head. 

"Just to be on the safe side, let's order a bronchoscopy," I say to the nurse standing next to me. "If they can't do it within the next few hours, come find me."

Scribbling notes on the medical chart, I hand the clipboard to the nurse and walk over to the parents, who, rightfully so, look petrified. Ten minutes later, satisfied that they understand the proposed course of treatment, I run a hand over their daughter's forehead and promise to check on her again before I leave for the day.

From there, it's a never-ending stream of coughs, sore throats, and, for one unlucky teenager, a fractured femur that requires surgery. I'm nearing the end of my shift when the supervising doctor calls my name in his authoritative drawl. I inwardly cringe, wondering if I did something wrong. I've seen so many patients today, it honestly wouldn't surprise me.

But his next sentence does, in fact, surprise me. "The little girl you sent down for the bronchoscopy--"

"Tammy Jacobson?"

"Yes, Miss Jacobson. Turns out she had a severe infection in her lungs. Most doctors wouldn't have caught it. So, uh, well done, Dr. Evans."

Dr. Kennedy says the last bit somewhat begrudgingly as if any sort of praise might encourage me to lower my standard of care. With a curt nod, he pivots and strides down the hall, his footsteps echoing off the walls. I stand frozen for a moment, a little smile on my face. But I'm only allowed to bask in the moment briefly, as I'm called to another patient's bedside.

It isn't until an hour later when I'm sitting in the locker room staring at my street clothes, that I allow reality to filter back into my consciousness. I wonder idly if this tunnel vision is what Roger experiences when he's on stage--pure focus on the task at hand, all other thoughts leaving the mind. Or maybe this is what he experiences the whole time he's on tour, as I haven't heard from him since I phoned him over a week ago.

I mentally shake off my annoyance and quickly change into my street clothes. Treading softly down the hall, I'm halfway out the door when a colleague calls my name. For the life of me, I can't remember his name even though we've been introduced on multiple occasions.

"Heard you had a good save today, Evans," he says, flashing a friendly smile. We walk outside, and the unseasonably cold air blasts us unexpectedly; it definitely wasn't this cold when I left home this morning.

"Just got lucky," I reply with what I hope is a modest shrug.

We part ways, and I set off towards the Tube. I'm tired and hungry, both sensations that I've become too accustomed to. Halfway down the block, a deep voice calls my name.

Stopping in my tracks, I turn with trepidation. Just as I expect, my ex-boyfriend stands a few feet away, dressed like a prep school poster boy. His blonde hair is perfectly styled, an expensive-looking pea coat protecting him from the wind.

"What're you doing here, Luke?" How does he even know where I work? I cautiously approach him, wishing that I could escape back to the hospital and bunker down there until he fucks off.

"Well, you won't return my phone calls, so you didn't leave me with much choice, sweetheart."

I wince as Luke says the last word, wondering why he thinks he has the right to use any term of endearment with me. God, he's like a particularly virulent case of VD that just won't go away. Why can't he get it through his thick skull that it's over?