It was a typical chaotic day in the ER—stretchers rolling in, monitors beeping, someone yelling for a crash cart. A fresh group of third-year med students hovered near the nurses’ station, wide-eyed and obviously overwhelmed, clutching clipboards like life preservers. They were mid-tour, still trying to figure out where the bathroom was, let alone how to save lives.

Carol Hathaway was juggling a chart in one hand and a phone call in the other when she caught sight of something—or rather, someone—that made her do a full double take.

You strolled in like you owned the place, ponytail bouncing, dressed in full cheer uniform with glitter still clinging to your cheekbones. You looked like you belonged on the football field, not in a trauma bay. Yet you walked straight to the admin desk with the confidence of someone who’d done rounds before. Your sneakers squeaked faintly against the floor, and every head in the med student group turned in your direction.

Carol hung up the phone and squinted. “Sweetie… did you take a wrong turn on your way to a pep rally?”

You gave a tired little smile, dropping your ID badge on the counter—Student: Emergency Medicine Rotation – MedU printed clear beneath your high school photo.

“Nope,” you said cheerfully. “Bio exam, then practice, then a ten-hour shift here. I think I deserve extra credit and a Red Bull.”

One of the new students blinked. “Wait… she’s in med school?”

You turned, still smiling. “Top of my class. And yes, I am seventeen. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a patient with abdominal pain in Curtain 3 and a nurse who still doesn’t believe I’m qualified to call consults.