A/N This is my first Grey's Anatomy fanfic, so please go easy on me, but, that being said, I would like some feedback. As I always say, constructive criticism is always welcomed; flames are not. I would also like to add that I am not a nurse or doctor, nor am I studying to be one, so this story will require a lot of research. My apologies for any medical inaccuracies.

Disclaimer: I do not own Grey's Anatomy. I only own my OFC, Leslie Etheridge. (Whose actor, at least how I picture her, would be Jennifer Aniston.) I know, shocker.

Song selection: "Kiri"~ Monoral

Episode 1

A Hard Day's Night

Beep. Beep. Beep. BEEEP! My alarm snaps me out of a deep, hangover-induced slumber. Groaning audibly, I reach my hand out from under the covers and fumble until I slap the alarm off.

I slowly peel the covers off of my body, my cotton fortress dissipating. I brush strings of hair from my face and place my hands on my knees, glancing at the alarm clock. The red digital dials inform me that it is 9:30 A.M.

I was supposed to be at the hospital for rounds at least half an hour ago. And on my first day. Dr. Bailey is going to kill me.

"SHIT!" My outburst startles my cat, Rosie, who's curled up on the other pillow. She makes a low, guttural sound halfway between a growl and a purr; her tail twitching in blatant annoyance. She's probably not too happy that I interrupted her beauty sleep.

I trip over the blanket as I start toward the bathroom, landing face down on the floor. I quickly stand, not even bothering to regain my bearings, and kick the blanket off my feet before darting into the bathroom and changing quickly into my smock. I know without even looking at the clock that I don't have time for a shower, which, I'm craving. I look at myself in the mirror and nearly cringe. I look like something out of a horror movie. My hair is still greasy, and not only do I feel horrible, I look twice as bad. I pull my hair into a messy ponytail and dab on some concealer, jump into my shoes, and close the bathroom door quickly behind me and reassure my cat that I'll be back. She turns her back to me and closes her eyes, indifferent.

(Yes, I do talk to my cat. Who doesn't?)

I pluck my car keys from the bowl on the kitchen counter, slip out the door, and slide the bolt home.

HOUR 1

"Each of you comes here hopeful. Wanting in on the game. A month ago you were in med school being taught by doctors. Today, you are the doctors. The seven years you spend here as a surgical student will be the best and worst of your life. You will be pushed to the breaking point. Look around you. Say hello to your competition. Eight of you will switch to an easier specialty. Five of you will crack under the pressure. Two of you will be asked to leave. This is your starting line. This is your arena. How well you play? That's up to you." Dr. Bailey scans each of us as we line up against the lockers. I already feel like I'm in the military instead of a hospital. Dr. Bailey is the sergeant and we the naive soldiers.

The tension is high- I can almost smell it among the other interns. Some fidget nervously, glancing around as if they're just waiting for this day to end already, while others either hide their uneasiness or don't experience first-day heebie jeebies at all. I am not one of the latter people.

"Okay! Martin, Robinson, Bond, Parkins..."

"Only six women out of twenty," one woman whispers next to me.

"Yeah." Her Asian companion nods. "I hear one of them's a model. Seriously, like that's going to help with the respect thing?"

I don't know how to respond to this, so I choose not to.

"You're Cristina, right?" The woman who spoke up first turns to the Asian woman.

"Which resident you assigned to?" Cristina inquires, as a way of introducing herself. "I got Bailey."

"Me, too," I speak up, and both Cristina and the woman turn to look at me.

"The Nazi?" the first woman proposes. "Yeah, me too."

"The Nazi?" I repeat, blinking. That can't be a good thing.

"You got the Nazi?" the guy next to me says as he struggles to pull on his smock. I nod. "At least we'll be tortured together, right?" I can't help but smile; something about his sense of humor is contagious. "I'm George O'Malley," he tells me, extending his hand.

I shake it firmly. "Leslie Etheridge. Pleasure to meet you."

George grins and nods, then turns to Cristina. "Uh, we, met at the mixer," he says, a red tint to his cheeks. "You had a black dress with a slit up the side, strappy sandals…" His blush deepens to a crimson red.

Meredith and Cristina exchange glances. I giggle, then cover my mouth with my palm feign a cough.

George looks stricken. "Now you think I'm gay."

Cristina is already halfway out the door. "Uh-huh."

"No, I'm not gay," George protests, stumbling over his words and hurrying after her. I follow suit. "It's, ah, it's just, you know, you were, I mean, you were very unforgettable."

Dr. Bailey turns to us and points. I stiffen. "O'Malley, Etheridge, Grey, Stevens." My cinched muscles relax, relief that I wasn't singled out myself flowing through me.

"And I'm totally forgettable," George mutters, looking at his feet defeatedly.

I pat his shoulder. "Don't hurt yourself, sweetie," I remind him gently. "There are worse things in the world than being gay. I mean, I totally support you."

"But...I'm not gay!" George insists meekly, chastined.

A male doctor walks past. Cristina stops him. "Bailey?" she questions.

The doctor jerks his thumb past her shoulder. "End of the hall."

The doctor is gone by the time we turn in the direction he pointed. A young, petite, African American woman with a chin-length pixie cut stands at the end of the hallway, arms folded across her chest. Her facial expression is stern, and she has a no-pussy-footing-around aura.

Cristina gawks at the woman. "That's the Nazi?" she whispers, clearly in awe.

"I thought the Nazi would be a guy," George admits, equally as shocked.

"I thought the Nazi would be...the Nazi," Meredith muses to no one in particular.

"Maybe it's professional jealousy," the pretty, blonde girl flanking us suggests, speaking up for the first time since arriving. "Maybe she's brilliant, and they call her a Nazi because they're jealous. Maybe she's nice."

All heads snapped toward Pretty Girl.

"Let me guess," Cristina says flatly. "You're the model."

I half-cough, half-giggle into my palm and look away indifferently.

Izzie shoots Cristina a look, then turns to Dr. Bailey, smiling and extending a hand. "Hi, I'm Isobel Stevens," she greets cheerfully, "but everyone calls me Izzie."

Yup, she's definitely the model. She's airheady, and way too friendly. That poor girl is going to get taken advantage of in a heartbeat.

Dr. Bailey looks Izzie up and down, scrutinizing her, but doesn't return her hand shake. "I have five rules. Memorize them. Rule number one, don't bother sucking up, I already hate you, that's not gonna change." She gestures the nearby desk. "Trauma protocol, phone lists, pagers. Nurses will page you, you answer every page at a run. A run, that's rule number two. Your first shift starts now and lasts forty-eight hours. You're interns: grunts, nobodies, bottom of the surgical food chain, you run labs, write orders, work every second night till you drop and don't complain!" She leads us down the hallway to a closet and opens the door, revealing a darkened room with bunk beds. "On call rooms. Attendings hog them, sleep when you can, where you can, which brings me to rule number three, if I'm sleeping, don't wake me, unless your patient is actually dying. Rule number four, the dying patient better not be dead when I get there, not only would you have killed someone, you would have also woke me for no good reason, we clear?"

Meredith's hand shoots up. "You said five rules," she points out. "That was only four."

After a beat of silence, Dr. Bailey's pager beeps. "Rule number five: When I move, you move." Dr. Bailey pushes her way through the group, storming past us. "Get out of my way!"

George and I exchange uncomfortable glances.

I can now see why they call Dr. Bailey the Nazi.

HOUR 2

Helicopter rotors up close sound a lot like bullets. I discover that as soon as we rush outside toward the emergency vehicle pulling into the parking lot. My ponytail is almost undone by the force of the wind from the rotors as we get closer and closer to the helicopter.

"What've we got?" Dr. Bailey queries as a seizing teen girl is lifted from the ambulance onto a stretcher and pushed hurriedly into the hospital. I jog to keep pace with Dr. Bailey and the stretcher.

"Katie Bryce, fifteen-year-old female," the paramedic pushing the stretcher replies through labored breathing. "New onset seizures, intermittent for the past week, ID lost en route; started grand mal seizing as we descended."

"All right, get her on her side, Leslie," Dr. Bailey barks as we round a corner. I nod and quickly move the spazzing girl on her side. "Izzie, ten milligrams Diazepam-" Izzie nods. "-No no, the white lead is on the right!" Dr. Bailey shouts at the paramedic. "Righty whitey, smoke over a fire, a large bore I.V., Don't let the blood haemolyse, let's go!"

Izzie injects the girl, and the seizing promptly comes to a halt.

A new doctor- a man whose nametag reads DR. BURKE- comes to Dr. Bailey's side. "So I heard we got a wet fish on dry land?" he asks, observing the now motionless girl on the stretcher.

"Absolutely, Dr. Burke," Dr. Bailey replies, glancing down at the girl.

Dr. Burke looks up. "Dr. Bailey, I'm gonna shotgun her."

"That means every test in the book: CT, CBC, chem. Seven, a tox screen. Cristina," she says firmly, turning to the said girl, "you're on labs. George and Leslie, you're on patient workups. Meredith, get Katie for a CT. She's your responsibility now."

Izzie looks lost in the shuffle. "Wait- what about me?"

Dr. Bailey turns to Izzie. "You, honey," she crows, surprisingly sympathetically, "get to do rectal exams."

Izzie blushes, looking unconfident for the first time since arriving at the hospital, and fumbles to snap on plastic gloves. I feel sorry for her.

"Rectal exams on her first day?" I whisper to George once Izzie is out of earshot. "That's gotta suck ass. Literally."

George's attempt to stifle a snicker fails, and Dr. Bailey glares at him, then at me. "You two," she barks, pointing at us. "You're not in high school anymore. Patient workups, now."

"Yes ma'am!" I nod quickly and turn to go down the hallway, George running to keep up.

HOUR 3

George places the stethoscope on the patient's chest, listening in for the pulse closely. "Yeah. Sounds good," he assures the patient and his female companion, putting the stethoscope around his neck again.

The woman looks at George and I hopefully. "He'll be fine?"

I nod at the woman and then smile at the man. "You'll be fine," I tell them softly, patting the woman's hand.

She smiles back, relieved, and looks at the man dreamily. I assume they're a couple, judging by the dreamy stares and gaga eyes they've been giving each other since George and I walked in.

The patient lies back down. "If you don't count that my bacon days are over, yeah."

"You'll have surgery tomorrow with Dr. Burke," George tells him. "I hear he's good. And after that, you can have all the bacon-flavored soy product you can eat."

"And maybe have a side of veggies with that," I add, only half-teasingly. "Doctor's orders."

"Mmm, kill me now," the patient groans theatrically, allowing his head to fall onto the pillow.

"I wish I could, but I'm a healer." George shrugs, receiving weird looks from the patient and I.

HOUR 4

After the rounds with our first patient, George and I locate Izzie, who's in the middle of a rectal exam; Dr. Burke nearby monitoring her carefully.

George and I peer into the room, our curiosity obvious.

Izzie's crouching at the end of the bed across from a middle-aged man. "Okay, so, I'm gonna... I'm just gonna…" Izzie clears her throat. "Insert my fingers into your rectum." Although Izzie looks as if she's going to gag, she proceeds to spread the patient's legs apart.

"Poor Izzie," I whisper to George. "I could never do that in my life. Never."

George doesn't attempt to hide his disgust. "Nope."

Dr. Burke's head snaps up, noticing us. "Out. Out," he orders firmly, gesturing to the hallway.

"Bet you missed a lot when you first started out," George remarks. I stamp down, hard, on his foot, and he winces, massaging his foot.

Dr. Burke looks derisive.

George and I start to head out, and I try to sneak one last peek before I follow him, poking my head in the doorway.

George grabs me by the shirt sleeve and pulls me down the hallway with him.

HOUR 5

Lunchtime rolls around much more quickly than I'd originally anticipated. I guess keeping busy helps. And when you're an intern, not being busy definitely isn't optional.

After getting my food, I sit down across from Cristina and Izzie, who's gawking at her food in horror, at one of the tables in the cafeteria.

George plops down next to me, sliding his tray in front of him. "This shift is a marathon, not a sprint," he reminds her, gesturing to her untouched food. "Eat."

Izzie looks at him helplessly. "I can't," she says slowly.

George bites into his hotdog, chewing noisily. "You should eat something."

"You try eating after performing seventeen rectal exams." Izzie shudders profusely. "The Nazi hates me."

"The Nazi hates everyone," I tell her, spearing a piece of iceberg lettuce with my fork. "So you're not exactly special."

"The Nazi's a resident," George says, swallowing his food. "I have attendings hating me."

"You know Meredith's inbred?" Cristina speaks up.

"Eew." I wrinkle my nose. "Eating here, Cristina."

"Like it's uncommon around here to be a doctor's-" George begins, but Cristina interjects, "No, I mean, royally inbred. Her mother is Ellis Grey."

I choke on my water, and Izzie slaps the table. "Shut up! The Ellis Grey?"

George slaps my back repeatedly until my coughing subsides. "Are you talking about who I think you're talking about?" I manage to croak out finally, clearing my throat.

Cristina nods. "Uh-huh."

George looks left out. "Who's Ellis Grey?"

Izzie, Cristina, and I laugh.

"The Grey method?" Cristina elaborates, twirling spaghetti on her fork. "Where'd you go to med school, Mexico?"

"She was one of the first big chick surgeons," Izzie explains. "She practically invented the abdominal-"

"She's a living legend," Cristina whispers, her eyes widening. "She won the Harper Ivey. Twice."

George looks down. "So I didn't know one thing."

"It's okay, grasshopper." I pat his shoulder sympathetically. "We're all new here."

"Talk about parental pressure," Izzie says sagely.

"I would kill to have Ellis Grey as a mother." Cristina places her elbows on the table and rests her head on her hands. "I would kill to be Ellis Grey."

"Wouldn't we all?" I point my fork at her in agreement.

Footsteps cause me to look up. Meredith Grey approaches our table, carrying a food-filled tray.

"Speak of the devil," I mutter under my breath, popping a piece of lettuce in my mouth.

"Katie Bryce is a pain in the ass," Meredith grumbles, sitting down next to Cristina. "If I hadn't taken the Hippocratic oath, I'd Kevorkian her with my bare hands." She takes a bite of her food.

We all stare at her silently.

Meredith pauses mid-chew. "What?" She tilts her head to one side apprehensively.

Before any of us can respond, a new voice chimes in, "Good afternoon, interns." Dr. Burke hovers near our table, his eyes scanning us each before landing on George. "It's posted, but I thought I'd share the good news personally. As you know, the honor of performing the first surgery is reserved for the intern that shows the most promise. As I'm running the OR today, I get to make that choice." He claps George on the shoulder. "George O'Malley. You'll scrub in for an appendectomy this afternoon. Congratulations."

George looks up at Dr. Burke, food dangling out of his mouth. "Me?" he asks incredulously, eyes wide.

Without another word, Dr. Burke walks away, leaving us all in stunned silence.

George's shocked gaze snaps to me. "Did he say...me?"

"I think he did," I say in a low voice, eating the last bite of my salad. "Congrats."

Sometimes, good things can happen when you least expect it.

Even if the good thing doesn't happen to you.

HOUR 6

"He's going to faint. He's a fainter."

"Naah. Code brown. Right in his pants."

"He's all about the flops, he's going to sweat himself unsterile."

"Ten bucks says he messes up the McBird."

"Twenty says he cries."

"I'll put twenty on a total meltdown."

"Fifty says he pulls the whole thing off."

All interns look at Meredith, the room going silent.

"That's one of us down there." Meredith gestures to George, who is muttering to himself and leaning over the surgery table. "The first one of us. Where's your loyalty?"

A beat. Then, Cristina says, "Seventy-five says he can't even ID the appendix."

"I'll take that action," Izzie acknowledges, and the others murmur their agreement.

"Damn." I slap my leg and stretch, leaning against the back of my chair. "You guys are brutal. Chillax."

"Chillax?" Meredith echoes, and I shrug.

"Chill out, relax...chillax." They all stare at me blankly. "Oh, so that saying's only a Chicago thing? I always thought it was universal."

"Yup," Meredith says, tilting her head at me. "Definitely only a Chicago thing."

I stare at her. "Was it really that obvious?"

"Oh, honey," Cristina cooes. "You have no idea."

"Okay, O'Malley." We all peer down through the glass, where Dr. Burke is standing next to George. "Let's see what you can do."

"Here it comes," Meredith murmurs, crossing her legs.

George sways a little, but regains his composure. "Scalpel."

The nurse passes him the tool. "Scalpel."

George takes it, and we cheer loudly.

Dr. Burke glares up at us and motions for us to shut up.

"That Burke, he's trouble," Cristina remarks, causing laughter from the interns.

George leans closer to the patient on the table, preparing to cut.

"More pressure," Dr. Burke tells George, coming to his side. "Human flesh is a tough shell; dig in."

George nods. "Pickups."

"Pickups."

"Clamp."

"Clamp."

George suddenly stops cutting. "Met some bone," he announces, looking at Dr. Burke. "I'm there."

"Damn," one intern whispers. "He got the peritoneum and he opened him up."

Meredith grins triumphantly. "I told you, he's going to pull it off."

I nod. "That's our George," I agree, smiling.

"Scalpel."

"Scalpel."

"Appendix is out," George says, tossing it into the trash can, prompting more cheers.

Dr. Burke looks like a proud father whose son finally rode a bike without training wheels. "Not bad."

George sighs with relief. "Thank you."

"Now," Dr. Burke continues, pointing to the tool in George's hands, "all you have to do is invert the stump into the cecum and simultaneously pull up on the purse strings but be careful not to-" a rip- "break them." Dr. Burke groans. "He ripped the cecum. Got a bleeder. You're filling with stool, what do you do now?"

George sways again, on the verge of fainting. "Uh...uh…"

"George," I mouth, shaking my head. He looks up at me almost helplessly. "Milk it. Milk it." I mime pulling on cow utters.

"Think," Dr. Burke coaxes softly but firmly. "You start the suction, and you start digging for those purse-strings before she bleeds to death. Belky, give him a clamp."

"B.P.'s dropping," the nurse remarks, glancing up at the heart monitor, which is indeed beeping frantically now.

George stands frozen, scalpel still in hand, looking like a deer caught in the headlights.

"He's choking," Cristina murmurs.

"Come on, George," Meredith urges in a whisper.

"Today," Dr. Burke snaps, losing patience. (Okay, that pun was definitely intended.) "Pull your balls out of your back pocket, let's go! What are you waiting for, suction?" The beeping increases; more high-pitched and ear-piercing now.

"Getting too low, folks…" Belky murmurs. "Dr. Burke?"

"Get out of the way." Dr. Burke pushes past George, shoving him. "Pansy-ass idiot. Get him out of here. Suction. Clamp."

I lean over to Meredith and whisper, "Poor George."

"007," the male intern next to me mutters.

"007," his companion agrees. "Yep, that's a total 007."

"What's 007 mean?" Izzie asks in a low voice, her gaze traveling from both young men, then to Meredith.

Meredith folds her arms over her chest and stares out the glass window. "License to kill."

….HOUR 19

"007. They're calling me 007, aren't they?"

"No one's calling you 007."

"I was on the elevator and Murphy whispered 007."

"Oh, how many times do we have to go through this, George?" Cristina groans. "Five? Ten? Give me a number or else I'm going to hit you."

George stares at his hands. "Murphy whispered 007 and everyone laughed."

"He wasn't talking about you," Izzie reassures him, stretching out on the bed.

George looks at Izzie. "You sure?"

Meredith glances at him. "Would we lie to you?"

"Yes," George replies, frowning.

"007," Cristina says, placing her hand on her knee, "is a state of mind."

George scowls. "Says the girl who finished top of her class at Stanford."

Meredith's pager beeps. "Oh, man," she groans, pocketing her pager after glancing at it. "It's 911 for Katie Bryce. I gotta go." She takes off running and disappears into the shadowy hallway.

"Maybe I should have gone into geriatrics," George mutters to himself. "No one minds when you kill an old person."

I groan. "George, sometimes, people wig out," I reassure him, leaning against the wall. "So you blew your first big surgery. It's not a big deal. You'll get your chance."

"Surgery is hot," Cristina adds sagely. "It's the Marines, it's macho, it's hostile, it's hardcore. Geriatrics is for freaks who live with their mothers and never have sex."

I snicker, taking a swig from my grape-flavored water bottle.

George stares off into the hallway at nothing in particular. "I've got to get my own place."

Cristina and I shoot each other looks and smile thinly.

HOUR 20

I yawn, shielding my mouth with my palm. "Is my shift over yet?" I moan, letting my head rest on the countertop.

"God, I hate nurses," a male voice grumbles, and I open my eyes to see one of the interns who watched George's surgery standing beside Meredith and I. "I'm Alex. I'm with Jeremy. You two are with the Nazi, right?"

I nod groggily, and Meredith says, "She may not have pneumonia, you know. She could be splinting, or have a PE."

Alex sighs. "Like I said, I hate nurses."

Meredith glares at Alex. "Did you just call me a nurse?"

Alex shrugs. "Well, if the white cap fits..."

Meredith's pager beeps. "Dammit, Katie," she mutters to herself before walking away.

I glare at Alex. "You're just an asshole, you know that?" I brush past him and follow Meredith.

Meredith and I round the corner to Katie's room, where several nurses are running inside, looking frantic. We pick up the pace and run across the threshold.

Several nurses are gathered by Katie's side. The said girl is seizing again, twitching and trembling violently, white foam pouring out of her mouth and onto the bed. Her eyes are rolled back into her head, only displaying the whites. She looks possessed.

"What took you so long?"

"She's having multiple grand mal seizures, now how do you want to proceed?" Meredith blanks out, staring into space, her chest heaving up and down quickly, in sync with her labored breathing. "Dr. Grey, are you listening to me? She's got Diazepam, 2mg Diazepam, I just gave her a second ago. Dr. Grey, you need to tell us what you want to do. Dr. Grey!"

Meredith doesn't shift from her panicked state, staring at the seizing girl on the bed.

"Oh, for God's sake." I grab Meredith by the shoulders and shake her. "Dr. Grey!" I yell in her face.

That seems to do the job; she finally snaps out of her panic. "Okay, she's full on Prazepam?"

"She's had 4mg," the nurse holding a still-seizing Katie steady replies.

"Did you page Dr. Bailey and Dr. Shepherd?"

Katie's seizure grows even more violent, her body thrusting against the sides of the bed.

"The Prazepam's not working!"

Meredith sucks in her breath. "Phenobarbital. Load her with phenobarbital."

I inject phenobarbital into Katie's leg, but her seizing doesn't subside. My heart pounds against my chest, taut with anxiety, and I can now understand Meredith's prior panic. "No change."

"You paged Dr. Shepherd?" Meredith asks, and I shake my head. "Well, page him again. Stat!" The heart monitor beeps quicker and quicker, and Meredith freezes up, her initial panic returning.

"What do you want to do?"

"Dr. Grey, you've got to tell us what you want to do!"

The beeping becomes thin and longer, less staccato.

"Heart's stopped!"

"Code blue, code blue! Code blue, code blue!"

"Charged. Clear."

"Still defib. Nothing."

"Charging. 19 seconds."

"Charge 300."

"300. Anything? 27 seconds."

"Charge to 360," Meredith says as I place my hands on Katie's chest and attempt to proceed with chest compressions. "Come on, Katie…"

"49 seconds."

"At 60 seconds you're supposed to admit her-"

"Charge again!" Meredith orders, and I attempt another chest compression. "Charge again. Anything?"

"I see sinus rhythm."

"Blood pressure's coming up again."

"All right. Pressure's returning. Grid's coming back-"

A young, very attractive doctor whose nametag reads DR. SHEPHERD runs in. "What the hell happened?" he demands, turning to Meredith.

"She had a seizure, and-"

"A seizure?" Dr. Shepherd looks at Katie, then to Meredith.

I swallow. "Her heart stopped."

If looks could kill, Dr. Shepherd's would smother. "You were supposed to be monitoring her!"

Meredith is flustered. "I checked on her, and she-"

"I got it." Dr. Shepherd's jaw tightens in annoyance. "Just- just go." Meredith turns away, but does not exit the room. "Someone give me her chart, please?" I pass Dr. Shepherd Katie's chart.

He nods, and I nod back. The universal doctor-to-doctor nod. I see you.

"Leslie, more chest compressions," Dr. Shepherd orders, and I snap out of my daze (Ogling a fellow doctor during a medical emergency? How unprofessional of me) and begin chest compressions once more before proceeding with mouth-to-mouth CPR. I hold for 5 seconds, then breathe a sigh of relief when Katie's pulse returns, the heartbeat monitor beating slowly but steadily with the promise of life.

HOUR 24

Cristina, George, Meredith, and I are all gathered in the small staff room just down the hall from Katie's room, awaiting some big announcement, apparently. At this point, the only big announcement that I want to hear is that I can go to bed. I've never been so exhausted in my life.

Cristina stabs a banana with a fork, and Meredith and I giggle.

"What are you doing?" Meredith asks her between chuckles.

"I'm suturing a banana," Cristina replies, pulling the peel off her banana, "with the vain hope that it wakes up my brain."

George laughs.

Cristina glares at him. "What are you smiling at, 007?"

George stops laughing and looks down.

"I'm sorry." Cristina shrugs and bites into her banana. "I get mean when I'm tired."

"I can see that," I say flatly, turning to face the doorway.

"You know what?" George muses. "I don't care. I comforted a family, and I get to hang out in the OR today. All is well."

I grin at George. "That's the spirit."

Cristina looks around apprehensively. "Does anybody know why we're here?"

Almost as if on cue, Dr. Shepherd strides in, and all attention snaps to him. "Well, good morning," he greets, and the interns murmur their call-and-response "good mornings."

Dr. Shepherd paces the room as he speaks. "I'm going to do something pretty rare for a surgeon, I'm going to ask interns for help. I've got this kid, Katie Bryce. Right now, she's a mystery. She doesn't respond to her meds. Labs are clean, scans are pure, but she's having seizures. Grand mal seizures with no visible cause. She's a ticking clock. She's going to die, if I don't make a diagnosis. Which is where you come in. I can't do it alone. I need your extra minds, extra eyes, I need you to play detective, I need you to find out why Katie is having seizures. I know you're tired, you're busy, you've got more work than you could possibly handle. I understand. So, I'm going to give you an incentive. Whoever finds the answer rides with me. Katie needs surgery. You get to do what no interns get to do. Scrub in to assist on an advanced procedure. Dr. Bailey's going to hand you Katie's chart. The clock is ticking fast, people. If we're going to save Katie's life, we have to do it soon."

Interns grab charts off the table, scurrying off to their designated assignments.

I pull my own chart off the table and tuck it under my arm, pausing when I feel someone staring at me.

Dr. Shepherd's dark gaze lingers on me, and, although it's not scary or threatening, my heart does start beating faster. It's hard to deny it- he does have good looks. But I can't be distracted by plain ol' good looks on the job. Although, it really isn't fair; how attractive he is. I wonder if he's aware that he's this attractive.

"Dr. Shepherd." I nod jerkily at him and turn to go hurriedly down the hallway, quickly disappearing into the shadows.

HOUR 25

As I hurry my way to Katie's room, her chart still tucked under my arm, I walk past George, who's peering into the window of one of the patients' rooms.

I pivot and turn back, coming to George's side. "Hey," I say with a quick smile as he steps aside.

"Hey," George echoes, glancing at me momentarily before retaliating his gaze back to the window.

I cup my hands around my eyes and peer in. Dr. Burke is leaning over the table, performing surgery on a familiar patient.

"Bacon Man?" I inquire, glancing at George, and he nods.

"The one and only." George and I look into the window again.

Dr. Burke finishes sewing up the patient.

"Well, looks like he'll be back to eating bacon sooner than he expected," I quip, and George smiles as Dr. Burke opens the door, stepping smoothly into the hallway.

"Wow, that was quick," George remarks vigilantly.

Dr. Burke nods. "His heart had too much damage to give him a bypass," he explains. "I had to let him go. It happens rarely. But it does happen. The worst part of the game."

In English? Bacon Man didn't make it.

"But I told his wi-" George buckles, "I told Gloria that he'd be fine. I promised her-"

Dr. Burke snaps to attention, like a soldier. "You what?"

Uh-oh, I think, wincing inwardly. In which George O'Malley feels the full-throttle wrath of Dr. Burke.

"They have four little girls-" George begins, and Dr. Burke blows his stack.

"Who are you to promise anything on?! This is my case. Did you hear me promise? The only one who can keep a promise like that is God, and I haven't seen him holding a scalpel lately. You never promise a patient's family a good outcome!"

George flushes, flustered. "I-I thought-"

"You think you're important enough to make promises to Mrs. Savage," Dr. Burke snaps, turning to go, "you get to be the one to tell her she's a widow." He storms down the hallway. His outburst drew a few stares from patients (and even some non-patients) in the waiting room, including an older, white-haired woman leaning forward to observe the drama unfolding in the hallway.

George looks at me. "I'm screwed, aren't I?"

I nod seriously. "I'm afraid so."

George sighs, tilts his head to the ceiling, then looks at the woman.

George drops his hands to his sides. "Guess I'm the messenger boy," he mumbles. "Be right back."

I lean against the wall, hugging the clipboard against my chest, as George informs Mrs. Savage of her husband's demise.

"I'm so sorry," George says softly, his face solemn.

The woman sobs into her hands. "Thank you," she whispers, her voice quivering. "Please, go away."

George ambles back over, regret flashing in his eyes. He leans against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. "You know, I would have been a really good postal worker," he muses. "I'm dependable. You know, my parents tell everyone they meet that their son's a surgeon. As if it's a big accomplishment. A superhero, or something. If they could see me now…"

"When I was little, I wanted to be a ballerina," I confess quietly, folding my arms over my chest.

George looks over at me. "We're going to survive this, right?"

Everyone always asks me why, and sometimes in my right in mind, would I want to be a surgeon. Besides helping people and saving lives? I'm really not sure. Holding a stranger's heart in your hands and knowing at the end of the day that their fate rests on you, and that one little mistake could cost a life, is nerve-wracking. It's more than nerve-wracking. It's downright terrifying, if you ask me.

I don't know a lot of things.

And this is just the beginning.

But I two things:

I have a job to do.

And I'm here to stay.