Page 121 of Clinically Bewitched
“She was having tea with a neighbor,” Nathan said carefully. “Mrs. Channing from 4B. They were sitting on the balcony when Athena said she felt faint. Then she just... passed out. Completely unresponsive. Mrs. Channing called 911 immediately.”
Unresponsive.
Passed out.
Faint.
My mind immediately started cataloging possibilities, running through differential diagnoses with the same precision I used in the OR:
Syncope—vasovagal, cardiac, neurological.
Aneurysm—subarachnoid hemorrhage, no warning, sudden collapse.
Stroke—ischemic or hemorrhagic, young but not impossible.
Seizure—first presentation, no known history.
Cardiac event—arrhythmia, structural abnormality, congenital defect.
Sepsis—rapid onset, systemic infection.
Hypoglycemia—she’d skipped breakfast this morning, said the universe told her to fast.
The universe.
She’d listened to the universe instead of eating breakfast!
“Vitals?” I asked, my voice clipped and professional. If I stayed clinical, I could function. If I stayed in doctor-mode, I wouldn’t fall apart.
“BP was low when she came in. 90 over 60. Heart rate elevated at 110. Respiratory rate is normal. O2 sat at 96 percent on room air.”
Low blood pressure. Tachycardia. Not critical, but not normal.
“Neuro status?”
“GCS was 13 when she arrived. She’s more alert now, but—”
A blur of movement caught my eye.
Dr. Richard Morrison, the head of neurology, my mentor, the man who’d trained me, rushed past me without a word, his expression focused and intense as he headed straight into Athena’s room.
My stomach dropped.
Why is Morrison here?
Why do they need the head of neurology?
What did they see on the scans?
“Julien,” Nathan said gently. “We’re running tests. CT, MRI, full labs. We’ll know more soon.”
“How soon?”
“Morrison’s reviewing the imaging now.”
I stared at the closed door of the trauma bay.
Athena was in there.
