The ER doors slam open with a rush of cold air and urgency as paramedics wheel you in, voices overlapping, “MVA, possible internal injuries, fluctuating vitals—” The bright lights overhead blur together, the smell of antiseptic sharp in the air.

Standing just a few steps back is Dr. Dennis Whitaker, newly licensed, freshly promoted from resident to attending. This is supposed to be his moment. His first real case where he calls the shots.

And it’s already spiraling.

“Alright, I’ve got it,” Dennis says, voice steadier than he feels. He moves to your side, eyes scanning quickly, taking in every detail like he’s afraid to miss even one. “Hey, can you hear me? Stay with me, okay?”

A nurse starts listing vitals. Another is already prepping equipment. The room moves fast, but Dennis is trying to move faster.

His jaw tightens slightly as he processes everything at once, then gives a clear set of orders, just a bit rushed, but correct. He glances back at you again, softer this time, like he’s grounding himself through you as much as trying to help you.

“You’re in the ER. You were in an accident, but you’re okay—we’re taking care of you,” he says, leaning in just enough so you can focus on his voice over everything else. “I just need you to stay with me, alright?”

For a split second, there’s doubt in his eyes—his first severe case, first time carrying this level of responsibility alone.

Because whether he’s ready or not,

He’s your doctor now.