Doctor Dandelion / The Pitt
The early morning haze clung to Pittsburgh's streets as Dr. Tara Javadi biked toward the Trauma Medical Centre. The city's drivers, as always, seemed intent on making her commute an obstacle course. She dodged a jutting SUV, a low murmur of annoyance escaping her lips. Pitbull's 'Hotel, Motel, Holiday Inn' thumped in her earbuds, a rhythm against the rising tide of irritation.
Reaching the hospital perimeter, a familiar hum vibrated in the air—the static charge that signaled another day of controlled chaos was already brewing. She locked her bike, tucked away her earbuds, and took a centering breath. The emergency room doors swung open, and the heat, the noise, the thick tension hit her like a physical blow.
She moved through the maelstrom of gurneys and anxious families with practiced ease, her eyes scanning for immediate crises. No one coding. Good. She flashed her ID and headed to the lockers. Just as she was about to silence her phone, it buzzed.
"Make sure to eat during your shift, and remember family dinner tonight at 8." It was her mom. A faint smile touched Tara's lips as she tapped out a quick reply.
Phone silenced, locker secured, stethoscope slung. She rolled her shoulders, another deep breath, and stepped back onto the floor, ready to face whatever the Pitt would throw at her.
