Chapter 5: Flashforward: The Fishbowl

Recipe

½ tsp Temulawak (Java ginger)

¼ tsp Kencur

½ tsp Nessi (from sanctuary)

⅓ cup butter

4 cups melting chocolate

My hands throbbed, the ache pulling at my shoulder sockets like a tetherball gone wild. But instead of pressing down on a ribcage, I was stirring a glossy concoction of melted chocolate, butter, and a handful of Indonesian herbs. This hypercharged Kit-Kat creation was my eccentric mashup—Willy Wonka meets Breaking Bad.

I popped one into my mouth. The flavors burst across my tongue—sweet, sharp, earthy—like they had the power to rewrite my past.

I used to believe flavor could heal.
But now I know better.

These weren’t just ingredients. They were portals—ready to pull me back into memory or fling me somewhere ahead.

Were they hallucinations?
Doya called them magic.

Like pressing my face to a fogged-up window, trying to glimpse a future that never came into focus. The visions never gave me answers—only more questions.

And as I drifted off to sleep, I had no idea what I’d see this time.

Seven years later

Boston Samaritan Hospital

The beeps from my cell phone echoed off the century-old walls as I crept off the hospital gurney.

Errk. Errk.

The crinkle of the plastic mattress cover always hit a different note, depending on how quickly I jumped out of bed. Tonight, it sounded like a falsetto. 

The old, abandoned hospital ward may seem creepy to some, but to me the quiet offered a welcome escape from the constant chatter of the emergency department (ED). Somehow, I’d stolen a 20-minute nap without interruptions—lucky me. I glanced down at my phone:

00:31 – DOCTOR DS, BED #3 IV DRIP LINE CLOGGED. OKAY TO FLUSH?

00:32 – BED #29, PATIENT WITH TEMP 103°F. LAST VANCOMYCIN DOSE AT 11:30PM...

00:32 – BED #32. PLEASE PLACE ORDER FOR CHEST CT WITH CONTRAST.

Ugh. I sprinted down the stairs toward the ED. 

The unmistakable vibration of a helicopter sounded against the thin window panes—MedFlight. Boston Samaritan’s hospital helicopter. That ominous silence before a storm had the same effect as hearing the MedFlight take off. My heart raced. What kind of patient were they going to bring in this time? A 55-year-old with five IV drips, still crashing from a community hospital? Nothing good happens after midnight in a city that never sleeps.

I exited the stairwell and entered the ED Fishbowl, a glass-walled room at the center of the Emergency Room. Inside, doctors, nurses, and medical assistants huddled together in a compact space, moving from one computer terminal to another.  

“There you are, Doctor DS. Bed 7 needs an order for IV Solu-Medrol,” a nurse said as I entered, her thick accent snapping me back to my Las Vegas roots. 

“Thanks, Josephine. I’m on it.” I scanned my tablet.

“I tried to hold your messages. Didn’t want to wake you from your beauty sleep,” she teased, grinning.

I chuckled. “Wouldn’t call it beauty sleep.”

She smirked. “You showed me a picture of that boyfriend of yours, Dr. DS. I’d be having sweet dreams if I were you. He’s a neurosurgery resident, right?”

“Yup. Same crazy hours. We penciled in dinner for the end of the month.” I laughed while leaning against the counter where she stood. “See more of you than him. But you’ve been married for forty years. Nothing beats that.”

Just as she patted me on the back, a small object fell out of my pocket. 

“What’s this?” Jo’s eyes twinkled as she rolled the blue piece in her hand before handing it over to me.

“It’s an hourglass. Someone… gave… it in college. It reminds me of what my mom sacrificed and how learning that freed me.”

“Sounds like a good story for our next stab wound suture together.”

Before I could respond, someone approached.

Tall and brisk in his white coat, the ED attending placed a hand on my shoulder.

“Prin, I’m glad you’re the emergency resident with me tonight—not some newbie med student. We’re expecting a GSW on MedFlight in 50 minutes. EMT report says "nicked femoral artery.”

“A real bleeder, huh.”

“I want you on the roof in 40 for the meet-and-greet. Jo will help you prep the code cart.”

“Got it.” My stomach twisted.

Everyone in the Fishbowl understood what a “bleeder” meant—patients teetering on the edge.

They needed constant monitoring: IVs flowing meds, fluids, and minute-by-minute adjustments.

Like a symphony, every drug played a part. When in harmony, they could save a life. But misstep once?

The patient would crash.

I eyed the espresso machine in the corner. I’d need a double shot tonight. Any dip in my caffeinated state, and the patient could code.

No bleeders on my shift. 

I repeated the mantra in my head.

No bleeders on my shift. 

***