"Yang."
"Surprised?"
"She's winning?"
"Did you expect someone else?"
"I'm 26 points behind? That's not possible. Count again." Izzie demands Alex, the one holding the clipboard. "What about all the procedures?"
"Only three points for watching. You gotta do." Cristina remarks.
She whines under her breath. "I do do."
"Ha. You said do-do."
"Grow up, Leven."
"I can't make them let me do procedures." Izzie resumes her complaining.
"You gotta ask. You gotta take charge of your own destiny and make it happen." Cristina pushes past the rest of us. "Like this."
The back doors to an ambulance swing open, followed by the voice of the paramedic onboard.
"Otis Sharon, 61-year-old male, found unconscious on the street corner with a swollen ankle."
"Not it."
"Way to take charge of your own destiny, Cristina."
Desperate for a few points, Izzie takes the case. Soon, Bailey comes out to check in on us. But just before she can dismiss us, three severely injured people — the result of a practically fatal bear attack — plow through the ambulance bay in their suburban.
"Are you alright, Mrs. Robinson?"
The young woman, drenched in her husband's and brother-in-law's blood, sobs quietly just outside the trauma room.
Having witnessed how her husband spoke so. . .openly about their more than sudden relationship, it was safe to assume she didn't appreciate the comments.
"It's just, you know, you marry a man like that — or a man like that marries you — and he's cute and he's rich. . .he's a catch by anyone's standards." Her tears cease momentarily. "So you sort of. . .sit around, waiting for the other shoe to drop, because there's no way a man like that marries you. Or me."
She slowly sinks against the wall.
"I mean, he married me."
I set aside the forms she'd filled out earlier, helping her move to sit in the waiting area.
"I'm sorry. I-I must look like a crazy woman."
At that moment I notice the blood caked to her dirty blonde hair, only it seems to darkening by the second — revealing to me the possibility of a head wound.
"Mrs. Robinson —"
"Please. It's Jennifer." She smiles through glossy eyes.
"Jennifer. . ." I approach cautiously. "You seem to be bleeding a little under the beanie. Do you mind taking it off so I can check?"
"No, no, I-I'm fine. I just scratched myself on a branch when we were running." She shakes her head before slipping it off.
My breath hitches at my throat as a piece of her scalp hangs low by her ear, still attached by a mere inch of skin.
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
Two quick pages to the McBest Friends and Jennifer is settled into her own trauma room. Mark sutures the head laceration whilst Derek examines the C.T. scan.
"C.T.'s clear."
"But it's deep. That bear clawed you good."
"God, I didn't even feel it."
"It happens when you're running on adrenaline."
"You're gonna have to repair the galea." Mark glances between me and the neurosurgeon. "But it should reattach without a problem."
Derek slips the first two fingers of both his hands into her grasp. "Okay. Squeeze my fingers as hard as you can, please."
"I just got happy. I just got married, and I'm really, really happy." Her eyes turn glassy, similar to before. "I don't have permanent brain damage, do I?" Jennifer releases a choked gasp.
"No, it appears that you do not."
"Okay, good."
"Dr. Phoenix, mind if we step aside and have a word?"
He locks eyes with me, and I feel Mark's impatient stare hovering over us. I meekly nod and follow him out the door, but not before flashing Jennifer an assuring grin.
"Dinner, tonight, you and me."
"That's it?"
"What's it?"
"You made me leave my patient just so you could ask me out to dinner?" A strained scoff leaves my parted lips. "Why are men so cocky?"
"Is that a no?"
"You sicken me, Shepherd."
"So seven?"
". . .eight. I've still got to pick up Scar."
I return to assessing Jennifer's husband, helping to discharge him sooner. But when I notice a few symptoms lining up, I conduct one last test.
"This is really nice of you. Dreaming up some brain tumor to make me feel better about the fact that I made a bear mad." Phillip grimaces distastefully. "Ever cross your mind I may just be the type of guy who's dumb enough to pet a bear?"
"Why don't you tell me, Jennifer?" I glance up at the anxious woman.
She finally stops twisting her wedding ring. "Well, don't ask me. I've only known him for a few months."
"Touching the bear cub along with your other symptoms —"
"Other symptoms." He scoffs. "My vision's going bad. So I get glass, right?" The man nonchalantly shrugs his shoulders.
"Brain tumors can disrupt judgment, cause spontaneous decisions, prompt impulsivity."
"He married a trashy waitress, right? I mean, that's what you mean. That he married a girl like me. . .the rebound girl."
"That's not what I'm saying. But I think we should conduct an MRI to confirm." I reassure her.
"Well, the answer's no."
"Do the MRI."
"Honey, you're —"
"Phillip. Do the damn MRI because you're wrong." She glances up at me. "He loves me. He loves me."
Unfortunately for them, the MRI confirms my suspicions. And so I call my dad and Derek — with much hesitation — to discuss the results with the couple.
The same time the chief breaks the news to them about his brother succumbing to his injuries after a determined fight.
"Um. . .doctor?" Jennifer follows me out of the room, her eyes glossy. "I'm a symptom, right?"
"Jennifer —"
"I mean, I'm. . .I'm like the bear cub." Her fingertips graze over her bandaged head. "I'm just a symptom of this tumor. That's what we're saying here, right? Just-Just so I'm clear."
"I'm sorry, but. . .I don't know the answer to that." I shake my head. "Only you can answer that for yourself."
Identifying the tumor and solving the medical mystery, worth 80 points, puts me at the top with the highest number of points. And as a prize. . .I receive a sparkle pager, which grants me the power to take any surgery that comes the way of any resident.
So, I'd have to say a job well done.
"Sloan and Shepherd." I clap my hands together, smiling fondly at the men standing in the elevator. "I'm canceling dinner tonight, sorry." My lips pout pitifully.
"What, why?" Derek frowns.
I point towards the single plastics surgeon. "You guys haven't hung out in ages. And Mark really needs to get laid. Soon."
"Hey —"
"Uh-uh. It's your night with him, Sloan. Fair and square."
As the elevator doors open with a ding, I leave with a little wave of the hand and a smirk adorning my face.
The last thing I hear from inside is:
"She's a keeper. But I swear to God, if you hurt her, I'll fu —"