Chapter 3: Breaking the Waiting Room Chains

But waiting in line wasn’t smooth sailing. Sometimes, a doctor would get called to another department for a consult and be gone for over half an hour. If an emergency patient arrived by ambulance, the doctor might disappear for two hours to help with resuscitation. There were even cases where doctors let their friends and relatives skip the line and head right in.

Every delay felt like a death sentence for someone at the end of the line. I saw a middle-aged woman burst into tears after a doctor left for an hour, clutching her number like it was a lifeline that was slipping through her fingers.

Connor started to see the flaws in the system:

“If we just keep waiting, it’s hopeless. We’re number 900 in line. At this pace, the earliest we’ll get seen is the seventh day. If the doctors spend extra hours every day on other things, the patients at the end of the line will run out of time and get eliminated.”

His voice was low, but the worry was obvious. He tapped his foot, chewing on the inside of his cheek—a nervous habit I’d seen a hundred times before. The odds were stacked against us, and we both knew it.

What kind of hospital runs on a system where the last in line gets the axe? Clearly, this place understood cutthroat management even better than I did.

It was like Survivor meets ER, and the only prize was making it out alive. I felt a grim sort of admiration for whoever designed this nightmare. They didn’t miss a trick.

I gritted my teeth and stood up. “I’m going to check the outpatient wing—maybe there’s another way.”

My voice was steady, but inside I was anything but calm. Sitting around waiting for death wasn’t my style. I needed to move, to do something—anything—to change our odds.

Connor pointed at the two guards by the door, both holding iron batons. “If the rules say we have to stay in the waiting area, leaving might get you killed.”

He wasn’t wrong. The guards looked bored, but their grip on those batons was tight. I could almost see the bloodstains that weren’t there—yet.

But just waiting around meant death, too—either from thirst, hunger, or missing your treatment window.

The thought of dying by inches, surrounded by strangers, was more than I could take. I looked at Connor and tried to muster a smile.

“Don’t worry. Don’t forget I’ve got my lucky charm.” I showed Connor the gold Saint Christopher medal in my pocket. He knew I’d had it blessed at my grandma’s old church. Like my grandma always said, sometimes faith is all you’ve got. If things got desperate, I could use it to pray for a miracle.

The medal glinted in the harsh light, and for a second, I felt a little less alone. Connor’s expression softened. He squeezed my shoulder, like he was passing me some of his own courage.

Connor didn’t try to stop me again after that.

He just nodded, giving me a look that said, "Be careful." We’d been through enough together for him to know when I’d made up my mind.

But I couldn’t just rush in blindly. That day, the doctors had lost three hours total, which meant the last thirty-six patients lost their chance to see a doctor. If I could rally those thirty-six people to make some noise with me, maybe we’d have a shot at escaping the ER.

I ran through the numbers in my head, counting faces in the waiting room, looking for anyone who seemed desperate enough to try something risky. The trick was getting them to act together.

But most of the players were still clinging to hope. They thought they could wait until the very last minute and weren’t willing to risk it.

I saw it in their eyes—the stubborn belief that maybe, just maybe, the rules would bend for them. It was hard to blame them. Hope is a hard thing to kill.

After making the rounds, only the patients with numbers 1007 and 1008 agreed to help.

Out of dozens, just two. Still, it was better than nothing. I met their eyes and nodded, grateful for the backup.

Number 1007 was a sixty-year-old retired lady. Mrs. Whitaker didn’t really understand how the hospital worked, but when she saw everyone rushing to the ER, her years of chasing Black Friday deals kicked in and she followed the crowd.

She wore a faded pink cardigan and sensible sneakers, her purse clutched tight. Her face was lined with both kindness and determination. I could tell she wasn’t the type to back down from a challenge.

The other was Derrick, a fitness coach. With arms like his, he’d muscled his way to a number.

Derrick looked like he could bench-press a gurney. He wore a sleeveless tee that showed off his arms, and his jaw was set in a way that said he’d fight if he had to. I felt a little safer with him around.

Mrs. Whitaker was easily swayed. When she heard that those at the end of the line wouldn’t get to see a doctor, she got as anxious as a cat on a hot tin roof. Since she was older, I gave her an easier task:

“Ma’am, if we end up fighting the guards, try to rally the others to join us. People follow the crowd—if someone leads the resistance, others will dare to follow.”

“If you spot any young guys in the crowd, push them to the front. They’ll have no choice but to help us take on the guards!”

Mrs. Whitaker patted her chest. “Don’t worry! Stirring up trouble is my specialty!”

She flashed a mischievous grin, the kind you’d expect from someone who’s out-haggled a dozen store managers. I believed her. If anyone could get the crowd moving, it was her.

With her promise, I stepped out of the waiting area without hesitation. Connor and Derrick crouched on either side, ready to back me up if the guards tried anything.

My heart thudded in my chest as I took that first step, the weight of every eye in the room pressing on me. Connor nodded, and Derrick cracked his knuckles. We were as ready as we’d ever be.

I took a few tentative steps toward the door. The guards just yawned lazily.

They barely glanced at me, like I was just another patient with nowhere to go. For a split second, I wondered if we might get away with it after all.

I made up my mind. “Run!”

The word burst out of me, sharp and urgent. In that instant, everything snapped into motion—the start of a new, desperate gamble.

Either we’d beat the system, or it would break us.