Dangerous Games We Play

Chapter 1

The loud, rhythmic thumping on my chest started at 4:45 AM, precise as an atomic clock.

I opened one eye to find two yellow lanterns staring down at me through the dim light of my bedroom. Barnaby, a ten-pound ginger rescue cat with one chipped ear and zero concept of personal space, let out a raspy, demanding meow right into my face.

"I'm moving, I'm moving," I mumbled, my voice gravelly from six hours of dead-to-the-world sleep.

I swung my legs over the side of the mattress and sat up, rubbing my eyes. My home was a four-hundred-square-foot condo in Queens that took three-quarters of my bi-weekly paycheck. It was small enough that I could see the kitchen sink, my front door, and my small dining table all from the edge of my bed. But it was mine. Well—mine and Barnaby's.

I padded barefoot across the cold hardwood, dumped half a can of damp salmon pâté into Barnaby's bowl, and started the coffee pot. While the dark roast dripped, I tapped my phone screen to start the latest episode of Morbid Curiosity.

The host's buttery, suspenseful voice filled the quiet kitchen, breaking down an unsolved cold case from 1994. Some people needed soft indie music to wake up; I needed a deep-dive into forensic evidence and alibis.

I leaned against the laminate counter, sipping dark roast from a chipped ceramic mug, watching the streetlights outside my window start to dim against the dawn.

I'd been an RN for fourteen months now.

Fourteen months, two weeks, and three days.
When you're twenty-three, people expect you to still be figuring out your life, making dumb mistakes, going to bottomless mimosa brunches on Sundays. And I was doing some of that—my sink currently had three days of dirty dishes in it, and I was pretty sure the milk in my fridge was two days past its expiration date. But at work, my age was an obstacle I had to constantly fight past.

Patients routinely looked right past me to ask the fifty-something orderlies for medical advice.

Older doctors called me "sweetheart" until I caught an abnormal rhythm on an EKG before they did. The first six months on the Med-Surg floor had been a blur of terror, constant imposter syndrome, and crying in my 2014 Hyundai on the drive home because I was so convinced I'd miss a vital sign and ruin a life.

Now, fourteen months in, the raw panic had settled into a steady, adrenaline-fueled focus. I wasn't a veteran yet—not even close—but I knew my way around a central line, I could hit a collapsed vein on the first stick, and I didn't shake when a patient started crashing.

Today, though, my stomach was doing little nervous flips. Today I was assigned to the Trauma Bay.

I took a fast, scalding-hot shower, letting the steam scrub the morning fog out of my head. Afterward, I pulled my dark blue scrubs out of the dryer, pulling the drawstring tight around my waist, and clipped my badge to my chest pocket. I packed my canvas tote: a fresh water bottle, two protein bars, a spare pair of compression socks, my stethoscope, three black clicky pens (which would inevitably be stolen by noon), and a Tupperware of leftover pasta.

Before I grabbed my keys, I checked the mirror by the front door. Dark circles under my hazel eyes, Red hair tossed up in a claw clip, scrub top slightly rumpled. Just Dani. Just a twenty-three-year-old girl trying to survive a twelve-hour shift in one of the busiest emergency departments in the city.

Ten minutes later, I was walking through the sliding glass doors of the ER, the familiar smell of antiseptic, floor wax, and stale coffee hitting me like a physical wall.

"Look who decided to grace us with her presence," a voice called out.

Leo was leaned against the central nursing station, looking impossibly put-together for six-fifty in the morning. He was twenty-five, gay, effortlessly sharp, and had been my rock since orientation day. His scrubs were always crisp, and he carried an iced caramel macchiato like a permanent accessory.