<b>Chapter </b><b>37 </b>
I stepped out of the pharmacy<b>, </b>tucking the small bag of medicinal supplements into my jacket pocket. The Manhattan streets were crowded with the usual afternoon rush–businesspeople hurrying back to offices, tourists ambling along taking photos, and street vendors hawking everything from hot dogs to knockoff designer watches.
That’s when I heard it–amotion up ahead, voices rising with urgency.
“Someone call an ambnce!”
<b>“</b><b>Is </b>there a doctor? We need <i>a </i>doctor here!”
<b>42 </b>
People were gathering in a circle about fifty feet away. Most just stood there uselessly with their phones out, probably recording for their social media. I sighed, intending to walk past, when something made me pause. Maybe it was instinct from my previous life, where assessing situations quickly meant survival.
I pushed through the crowd and saw an elderly man sprawled on the sidewalk. His face was ashen gray, beaded with sweat despite the cool weather. His breathing wasbored, one hand clutching at his chest. ssic signs of acute myocardial infarction–a heart attack.
I dropped my bag and knelt beside him, checking his pulse. Weak and irregr. His pupils were dted, not responding properly to the harsh sunlight.
“<b>Sir</b><b>, </b>can you hear me?” I asked, keeping my voice calm and authoritative.
He managed a weak nod, pain etched across his face.
I opened my backpack and pulled out apact medical kit. In my previous life as Shadow, I never went anywhere without emergency medical supplies. Old habits die hard.
“What are you doing?” A muscr man in a tight–fitting athletic shirt stepped forward. “Are you a doctor? You look like you should be in high school.”
“I know what I’m doing,” I said tly, not bothering to look up as I prepared a syringe.
“Wait<b>, </b>you can’t just-” he began.
“She’s going to kill him!” someone in the crowd gasped.
??)
I ignored them all, focusing on the task at hand. The old man needed epinephrine to stabilize his heart rhythm, followed by a vasodtor to improve blood flow. I administered both with practiced precision, then began chestpressions, counting under my breath.
“The ambnce ising,” someone said nearby. “Should we stop her?”
The fitness instructor looked uncertain now. “I don’t think… she seems to know what she’s doing.”
After two minutes ofpressions, I checked the man’s vitals again. His color was improving slightly, breathing bing lessbored. I ced two fingers against his carotid artery–pulse strengthening. Good.
42
A woman in a business suit pushed forward. “I’m a nurse. Do you need-” She stopped, watching me
work with growing admiration. “You’ve done this before.”
I didn’t answer, focused on monitoring the patient’s condition. The crowd had grown, forming a tight
circle around us. Some still recorded on their phones, but most had lowered them, their expressions
shifting from voyeuristic curiosity to genuine concern.
The fitness instructor had moved to keep people back, giving me space. His earlier skepticism had
transformed into respect. “Give her room to work,” he told the crowd firmly.
The old man’s eyes fluttered open, confusion giving way to recognition as he focused on me.
“You…” he whispered, voice barely audible.
Before he could continue, paramedics pushed through the crowd, equipment in hand.
“What happened?” the first EMT asked, kneeling beside me.
“Acute myocardial infarction,” I said, shifting to allow them ess. “Patient presented with chest pain, dyspnea<b>, </b>diaphoresis. I administered 0.3 milligrams epinephrine followed by 5 milligrams of nitroglycerin. Pulse is stabilizing but still irregr.”
The EMTS exchanged impressed nces.
“Are you in medical school?” the second one asked, preparing an oxygen mask.
“No.”
“She just came out of nowhere,” the fitness instructor exined, now sounding apologetic. “I
<b>10:08 </b>Wed<b>, </b><b>Sep </b>17
thought… well, she looks so young.”
??)
<b>42 </b>
As the paramedics transferred the old man to a stretcher<b>, </b>a harried–looking young man in a rumpled suit pushed through the crowd.
“President Thornton!” he eximed, clearly distressed. “Oh god, I just stepped away for coffee-”
The title caught my attention. President Thornton–Philip Thornton, the Princeton University
President.
“He’s stabilizing,” I told the assistant. “But he needs to get to a hospital.”
The assistant nodded gratefully. “Thank you. Would you… would you minding along? He might
want to speak with you when he’s more coherent.”
I hesitated, calcting the time. I needed to get back to Cloud City, but this connection might prove
useful.
“Fine,” I said, picking up my bag.
At the hospital, I sat in a private room while Philip rested. The cardiac team had confirmed my diagnosis and treatment had likely saved his life.
Philip stirred, eyes opening slowly. He looked around, gaze settling on me.
“You’re the girl,” he said, voice hoarse but stronger than before. “The one who helped me.”
“<b>Yes</b><b>,</b>”
“Jason tells me you saved my life.” He nodded toward his assistant, who hovered nearby. “What’s your
name?”
“Jade Morgan.”
Philip studied me with surprising intensity for someone who’d just suffered a heart attack. “You administered epinephrine and nitroglycerin. Not many high school students would know the correct dosage.<b>” </b>
I shrugged. “I read a lot.”
<b>10:08 </b><b>Wed</b><b>, </b><b>Sep </b><b>17 </b>
“Medical textbooks, apparently,” he said with a weak smile. “Where do you attend school<b>?</b><b>” </b>
“Cloud City High.”
<b>His </b>eyebrows rose slightly. “Senior?”
“Yes.”
<b>42 </b>
<b>“</b>nning for college?” he asked, seeming genuinely interested despite his condition.
“I haven’t decided yet.”
Philip nodded thoughtfully. “With your medical knowledge, you should consider Princeton’s medical school.” He reached for the bedside table, pulling out a business card. “I’d like to stay in touch<b>, </b>Jade.”
I took the card, noting the Princeton University emblem. “Thank you.”
“May I have your number? I’d like to rmend you to the admissionsmittee. I still have some
influence there.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I replied. “I can get into Princeton on my own if I want to.”
Instead of being offended, Philipughed, then winced as the movement hurt his chest. “I believe you would. But connections never hurt.”
Before <b>I </b>could respond, the door opened. A tall man in an impably tailored charcoal suit entered, nked by two security personnel in dark suits. The hospital staff in the hallway seemed to shrink against the walls as he passed.
<b>10:08 </b><b>Wed</b><b>, </b><b>Sep </b>17
Badass in Disguise
<b>Chapter </b><b>38 </b>