Chapter Six: Wrong Answers

Naomi stared at the screen for another second before locking her phone and slipping it into the pocket of her scrubs.

You’re running out of time.

The words settled uneasily in the back of her mind.

She lifted her head and looked across the emergency department. Nothing seemed out of place. Nurses hurried between treatment bays carrying medication trays and fresh IV fluids. Doctors moved from one patient to the next, their voices rising above the constant chorus of monitor alarms. Near the ambulance entrance, paramedics rushed another stretcher through the doors while security tried to hold back anxious relatives demanding answers no one had.

Life inside the emergency department hadn’t paused just because someone had sent her a message.

It had simply moved on without her.

“Dr. Sinclair!”

The call snapped her back to reality.

She turned to see one of the residents waving her over from Trauma Three.

“We’re losing him.”

Naomi crossed the department at a jog, slipping on a pair of gloves before she reached the bedside. The patient looked to be in his late fifties, his skin pale beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. His breathing had become shallow, each breath shorter than the one before it.

“Vitals?”

“Blood pressure’s dropping. Heart rate’s one-forty. Oxygen saturation’s ninety-eight.”

Naomi’s jaw tightened.

Ninety-eight.

She had spent years training herself to find comfort in numbers like that.

Now they meant almost nothing.

She listened to his chest.

Clear.

She checked his airway.

Patent.

His lungs were doing exactly what they were supposed to do.

His body wasn’t.

For a brief moment she found herself back in the pathology lab, Leonard’s voice cutting through the silence.

They’re getting oxygen.

Their bodies just aren’t using it.

The memory disappeared as quickly as it came.

“Let’s repeat his blood gases,” she said. “Start another IV line and get respiratory down here.”

The team moved immediately.

An Aelion respiratory support unit was wheeled to the bedside, its soft blue lights glowing against the white walls. Two technicians worked quickly, sealing the transparent chamber around the patient before adjusting the controls.

The change wasn’t immediate, but it was enough.

His breathing steadied.

His heart rate began to fall.

Around the bed, shoulders relaxed ever so slightly.

Not because anyone believed he was out of danger.

Because they had managed to buy him a little more time.

That seemed to be all they were doing anymore.

Buying time.

Naomi stepped away from the bed and pulled off her gloves, flexing her stiff fingers. The ache beneath her ribs had returned, accompanied by the same frustrating feeling that no matter how deeply she breathed, her lungs never seemed completely full.

She ignored it.

There were too many people depending on her to think about herself.

She reached for the next patient’s chart when a respiratory therapist hurried past, an empty oxygen cylinder balanced against his hip.

“We’re out on the east side,” he called.

“So is ICU,” another nurse answered.

“What about Bellevue?”

“They stopped taking transfers.”

“And Mount Sinai?”

“Already full.”

The conversations drifted through the department like background noise, each one adding another crack to the picture forming in Naomi’s mind.

This wasn’t just one hospital struggling to cope.

The entire city was beginning to buckle.

She glanced toward the nurses’ station, intending to grab the chart she’d left behind, when she noticed several people looking up at the television mounted high on the wall.

Emma was standing beneath it, the remote still in her hand.

When she spotted Naomi, she gave a small wave.

“You need to hear this.”

Naomi made her way over, weaving between stretchers and exhausted staff until she reached the nurses’ station.

On the television, the camera settled on a podium outside Columbia University.

A line of reporters waited with microphones raised, ready to begin.

Whatever this was…

It was important enough to make an entire emergency department stop and watch.

-----

Naomi folded her arms as the live broadcast filled the television screen.

The camera settled on a small podium outside Columbia University, where reporters stood shoulder to shoulder behind metal barricades. Microphones crowded the front, each bearing the logo of a different news station. Beyond them, students and staff lingered at the edge of the courtyard, watching from a distance.

A man stepped up to the podium, adjusting his glasses as flashes from the cameras lit up his face. He looked exhausted. His lab coat was hidden beneath a dark overcoat, and the lines around his eyes suggested he hadn’t slept in days.

The caption at the bottom of the screen identified him as Dr. Alan Voss, Professor of Environmental Biology, Columbia University.

Before he could say a word, the questions began.

“Dr. Voss, are we dealing with a virus?”

“Should people avoid crowded places?”

“Can you confirm reports that hospitals across New York are running out of oxygen?”

He raised a hand, asking for a moment to speak.

“I understand why everyone’s looking for certainty,” he began. “The truth is, we’re still trying to understand what we’re seeing.”

His voice was calm, but there was no confidence behind it. Only honesty.

“Research teams across the country have been reviewing blood samples, tissue analysis and environmental data collected over the last twenty-four hours. Every new report helps us rule something out.”

A reporter near the front frowned.

“So what have you ruled out?”

“So far,” Voss replied, “we have no evidence of a new virus. We have no evidence of bacterial contamination, and we have no evidence of a chemical release that explains what’s happening on this scale.”

A murmur spread through the reporters.

“If it isn’t any of those things,” another journalist asked, “what are hospitals treating?”

Voss hesitated.

“I’ve spent most of today speaking with physicians from around the country.” He glanced down at the notes in front of him before looking back at the cameras. “They’re describing the same pattern. Patients are breathing. Oxygen is reaching their bloodstream. But somewhere between delivery and use…” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Something isn’t working the way it should.”

Naomi felt the muscles in her shoulders tighten.

Leonard.

He had said the same thing.

“We may have spent too much time asking what this is,” Voss continued. “Maybe it’s time we start asking—”

A loud bang echoed from somewhere behind the cameras.

Every head turned.

The picture jolted as the cameraman spun around.

“What was that?” someone shouted.

Another crash followed.

The reporters nearest the podium stepped back, looking past the cameras toward something the audience couldn’t see.

Then the shouting started.

“Move!”

“Get back!”

The camera lurched violently as people scattered in different directions. A microphone toppled to the ground. Someone collided with the cameraman, sending the image spinning sideways before it hit the pavement.

For a brief second, all Naomi could see were running feet and overturned equipment.

Then the screen went black.

A moment later, the newsroom returned.

The anchor sat perfectly still, one hand pressed against the earpiece hidden beneath her hair. The practiced composure she’d worn all day had disappeared.

“We… appear to have lost our live connection to Columbia University,” she said carefully. “We’re trying to reach our crew now and will bring you more information as soon as we have it.”

No one at the nurses’ station spoke.

Emma slowly lowered the remote.

“What just happened?” she whispered.

Naomi didn’t answer.

She couldn’t.

Before anyone could process what they’d just seen, a monitor alarm pierced the silence from somewhere behind them.

The emergency department lurched back to life.