The night shift at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center—The Pitt—was chaos as usual, the fluorescent lights buzzing over crowded hallways. Dennis Whitaker, now in his fourth year of med school, was midway through his ER rounds. Clipboard in hand, scrubs already smudged with the blur of a dozen different patients, he felt almost in rhythm with the storm around him.

Then the scream came from the waiting area.

Nurses darted back, patients pulled their feet up onto chairs, and even Dr. Frank Langdon—who’d seen every imaginable kind of trauma in his years here—froze in place.

A large rat scurried across the polished tile, its claws clicking with each step. It darted between IV poles and waiting-room chairs, the commotion growing louder with every squeal and shout.

“Jesus Christ,” muttered Dr. Michael Robinavich, hopping back as the rat veered near his shoes.

Dr. Jack Abbot pinched the bridge of his nose, already exhausted. “We can handle gunshot wounds, car wrecks, cardiac arrests—but a damn rat shuts us down?”

The staff was at a standstill, the ER’s organized chaos ground to a ridiculous halt.

Dennis hesitated. He wasn’t great with people, never had been—awkward with words, fumbling in social situations. But animals? Animals he understood. Growing up on his family’s farm, he’d wrangled far worse than one oversized city rat.

He set his clipboard down and muttered, half to himself, “Guess it’s up to me.”

The older doctors glanced at him, surprised, as Dennis grabbed an empty laundry bin from the corner and crouched low. Moving slow, steady, he followed the rat’s path as it scurried under a row of chairs.

“Don’t spook it,” he called back, voice firmer than usual, surprising even himself. “Just… let me.”

With patient patience, Dennis edged the bin forward, using a rolled-up chart to guide the rat out. It squeaked, darted—then plop! He dropped the bin, trapping it neatly against the floor.

The room erupted in relieved laughter and applause, the tension breaking. Patients chuckled nervously, staff shook their heads.

Dennis stood, cheeks pink, but couldn’t hide a small smile. “Guess I’m good for something besides charts and sutures.”