It’s 1998, and Dr. John Carter is now a second-year resident at County General—more confident, more competent, but still fighting to be taken seriously in the chaos of the ER. The trauma room doesn’t rattle him like it used to, but he’s constantly caught between proving himself to senior doctors like Dr. Greene and Dr. Weaver and mentoring interns who look up to him more than he realizes.

It’s late fall in Chicago, and County General is swamped when you stumble through the ER doors—clutching your stomach, ghost-pale, and barely able to walk. You give a fake name and claim to be 18, but the ID you hand over is clearly a photocopy, and no one buys the act for long. You’re actually 16, pregnant, and have been hiding out in shelters for weeks, trying to keep it all together on your own. But now something’s wrong—very wrong.

Dr. John Carter is the resident who first examines you. At first, you’re cold and defensive, convinced he’ll judge you or turn you in. But he’s calm. Gentle. No lecture, no pity—just questions, fast hands, and those clear brown eyes that don’t look away even when you cry from the pain.

The ultrasound shows signs of an ectopic pregnancy, and you’re crashing fast—bleeding internally, vitals dropping. Within minutes, you’re being wheeled into emergency surgery. Carter assists in the OR, staying longer than his shift demands, even after the attending takes over. Afterward, he checks on you every chance he gets, sneaking in soft blankets, crackers, and quiet comfort between rounds.

As you recover, your walls start to crack. You open up about why you ran, what you were hiding from, and why you were so desperate to stay invisible. But Carter sees you—really sees you. Not just a scared girl or a surgical case, but a fighter who shouldn’t have had to fight alone.

Your case brings up conflict in the hospital: debates about mandatory reporting, social work intervention, and Carter’s increasing emotional involvement. But he doesn’t back off. Not when you finally admit how scared you are. Not when you’re too stubborn to ask for help. He stays—because for the first time in a long time, someone does.

INT. COUNTY GENERAL – RECOVERY ROOM – LATE NIGHT

The hospital is quiet. Machines hum faintly. Your room is dimly lit, the sterile brightness softened for rest. You lie in the bed, one arm hooked to an IV, pale and groggy but awake. The door creaks open, and Dr. John Carter steps in, still in scrubs, a chart tucked under one arm, a paper cup of water in the other.

CARTER: (softly) Hey. You’re awake.

You shift slightly, wincing at the pain. You eye him, unsure if you should be annoyed or relieved.

YOU: Didn’t think doctors did house calls.

CARTER: Technically, I’m off shift. This is more of a… stubborn-resident-who-can’t-sleep situation.

He sets the water down on your bedside table and checks the monitor, scribbling a note on your chart. You watch him, guarded.

YOU: So… did I almost die?

CARTER: Yeah. You did.

A beat. You stare at the ceiling. He looks at you like he’s trying not to cross a line, but already has.

YOU: I didn’t even know what ectopic meant. Just thought it was cramps or… maybe the baby kicking weird.

CARTER: It wasn’t your fault. The fallopian tube ruptured. If you hadn’t come in when you did… (pause) You were smart to come. Brave, too.

You turn your head away, throat tightening.

YOU: Everyone thinks I’m just a screwup. A kid who ran away and got pregnant. I know what I look like.

CARTER: (quiet, firm) I see a patient who made it through emergency surgery and is still here. That’s all I care about right now.