Behind the White Coat

The moment I hung up, my eyes drifted to the strip of bushes along the side of the road. A split second later, I made up my mind, yanked the steering wheel hard, and sent the car straight into them.

The instant the airbag exploded in front of me, a sharp crack shot through my lower leg, like a stick snapping clean in half. Pain exploded from my ankle and raced through my entire body. I slumped over the steering wheel as everything faded to white.

Yet I could not stop smiling.

My leg was broken. It was not bad enough that I could go into the operating room, but it would not leave me crippled.

This time, I was not going to take the blame. Without me to pin it on, I wanted to see how they were going to explain Garrett Lowe's death.

I stayed slumped over the steering wheel, pretending I had passed out. A moment later, my phone rang again.

It was Lilian Jones.

I let it ring until it fell silent. After all, someone who was unconscious could not answer a phone call.

The pain made my thoughts hazy, but the memories of my previous life had never been clearer.

In my previous life, the moment I got that call, I spun my car around and raced back to the hospital like a madman, running two red lights along the way.

However, by the time I reached the operating room, Garrett was already dead on the table. The incision in his skull had not even been stitched closed yet, but his blood had already gone cold.

Right in front of more than a dozen members of Garrett's family, Lilian slapped me across the face. She accused me of stealing the surgery to boost my promotion, then claimed my mistake during the operation had killed the patient.

I was completely stunned. Before I even had the chance to explain, Garrett's family rushed at me.

The hospital immediately suspended me from clinical practice, stripped me of my position as chief neurosurgeon, and revoked my medical license for six months.

I refused to accept it and prepared to appeal, but before I could file the paperwork, Garrett's family hacked me to death outside the emergency department in broad daylight.

Only after I died did I learn the truth.

Lilian had been having an affair. She had let Ethan Smith use Garrett as practice. Ethan made one fatal mistake and sliced through a cerebral artery. The bleeding could not be stopped.

When Garrett died on the operating table, they panicked. To avoid taking the blame, they called me back to be their scapegoat.

Less than a week after my funeral, the two of them moved in together without making any effort to hide it. Before long, they had even become the hospital's model couple.

Meanwhile, my father had no one left to care for him. He died alone at home, and it was not until days later, when the neighbors noticed the smell, that they finally called the police.

A knock sounded on my car window. "Hey! Young man! Are you okay?"

I kept my eyes closed.

Someone called the police and an ambulance.

As I was lifted onto a stretcher, I heard one of the bystanders say, "I think his leg's broken."

When I arrived at the hospital, the doctor who examined me was Tiffany White. The honest woman froze for three full seconds the moment she saw my face. "D-Dr. Porter?"

She gently patted my shoulder, and I 'woke up' right on cue.

"Dr. White." I grabbed her sleeve, my voice filled with urgency. "How's Garrett, the patient on Bed 9? Lilian said he's in critical condition. I have to get to the operating room."

Tiffany glanced at my leg, her brows tightening into a deep frown. "You've got a broken leg. Forget the surgery. You're getting X-rays first!"