The Extinction Event

There are dignified ways to enter an Emergency Room. You could be carried in by a fireman. You could walk in stoically clutching a bleeding hand.

You could not, however, maintain any shred of dignity while being wheeled into Triage wearing the bottom half of an inflatable Tyrannosaurus Rex costume.

"Patient is a twenty-six-year-old female," the triage nurse announced to the room at large, her voice lacking even a hint of sympathy. "Possible ankle fracture. Fall from a... height?"

"It was a railing," Sophie Miller corrected weakly from the wheelchair. The battery pack of her fan had died ten minutes ago, leaving the polyester dinosaur legs deflated and wrinkly around her waist. "I was trying to dance."

"Fall from a railing," the nurse amended, scribbling on a clipboard. "Bay Three."

Sophie gripped the armrests as she was wheeled into the curtained cubicle. The air in St. Jude’s smelled of rubbing alcohol and Saturday night bad decisions. Her ankle was throbbing a steady, hot rhythm that synced perfectly with the headache forming behind her eyes.

This was Chad’s fault. Chad, with his blindingly white teeth and his insistence that a "Prehistoric Party" was a great second date idea. Chad, who was currently sitting in the waiting room scrolling through TikTok while Sophie was wheeled back alone.

"Doctor will be with you in a minute," the nurse said, parking the wheelchair and helping Sophie hop onto the gurney. The plastic tail of her costume squeaked loudly against the paper sheet.

"Wait," Sophie grabbed the nurse’s sleeve. "Who is the attending tonight? Is it Dr. Patel? Or maybe Dr. Henderson?"

Please let it be Henderson. Henderson was sixty, nearsighted, and wouldn't care that Sophie looked like a deflated lizard.

"It’s Dr. Thorne," the nurse said, checking the whiteboard.

The blood drained from Sophie’s face so fast the room spun.

"No," Sophie whispered. "No, no, no. I’m healed. It’s a miracle. I can walk."

She tried to slide off the bed. Her left ankle screamed in protest, forcing her back down with a gasp.

The curtain rings rattled. The fabric was whipped back with efficient, terrifying speed.

He stood there.

Dr. Ethan Thorne.

He was wearing navy blue scrubs that fit him unfairly well, his ID badge clipped to a chest that Sophie knew intimately. His dark hair was slightly messy, suggesting he’d been running around saving lives, but his face was composed, stoic, and devastatingly handsome.

He was looking down at a chart. "Patient presents with ankle pain and..."

He stopped.

He looked up.

His gaze landed on Sophie’s face, pale and sweaty. Then, his eyes traveled down to the orange, scaly polyester encasing her legs.

His jaw tightened. A muscle feathered in his cheek. The air in the trauma bay seemed to drop ten degrees.

"Hello, Sophie," he said. His voice was a deep, smooth baritone that used to be the soundtrack to her sleep. Now, it sounded like judgment day.

"Hi, Ethan," Sophie squeaked. She tried to pull the T-Rex tail over her legs for modesty, but it just made a sad *fwa-pfft* sound. "I didn't know you were working tonight."

"I'm the Attending," he said flatly. He stepped into the bay and let the curtain snap shut behind him, sealing them in a private, fluorescent-lit bubble. "I'm always working. You know that."

That was the dagger. The reason they broke up. *You’re married to the hospital, Ethan. I’m just the comic relief you come home to.*

He tossed the chart onto the counter. He didn't smile. He looked at her with a intensity that made her skin prickle.

"So," Ethan said, snapping on a pair of blue nitrile gloves. "Tell me about the dinosaur."

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