Chapter Text
5:48 am
$8.20
12 min (2.5 mi) away
Pickup: 6th St & Penn Ave // Drop-off: Liberty Ave & Tito Way (ETA: 2 min)
Two minute ride requests shouldn’t feel like a personal vendetta, but at 5am they do, a slap delivered via satellite. The silver lining here is that the slap doesn’t come with a hospital run.
It comes with an inconspicuous corner as its final destination. A nonsensical three-block ride to the uninitiated, the “budget traveler special” to Mara. It's a bridge between a random Airbnb and the 28x airport flyer bus. For the traveler who has everything, except a flight at a reasonable hour and $80 to get there.
The app might as well be asking Mara to give the guy a piggyback ride. But Mara’s in no position to refuse an $8.20, five star, piggyback ride. She has to prove she’s a team player to an algorithm that doesn't know she’s a human being and wouldn't care if she were a sentient toaster.
“Fine,” she mutters, thumb hovering over the screen. “Congratulations on your financial wizardry. Enjoy the bus.”
Accept.
6:01 am
At pickup, the guy looks exactly as expected, down to the strictly regulation-size carry-on suitcase. He opens the door before she can get a good look, and when she comes out, it’s less to provide that high rated “quality” service that entails opening the trunk, and more to get a look at the guy in the glow of the streetlamp.
Usually, she’d vet guys for their killer potential. Recently, she’s been vetting guys for their dying-in-the-back-of-her-car potential. She doesn’t know what she’s looking for, mind you, but so far rosy cheeks, steady breath, and clear speech have been serving her well.
Once he slides in, Mara chooses to read his exhale as a sign of alertness – rather than a sign of annoyance that it took her an extra second to pop the trunk. Most boring passenger ever, thank god.
One and a half blocks in, she decides to tempt fate, gambling 5 stars on a potential $80.
“You flying out?” she asks, trying for casual despite the wobble of hope in her voice.
Immediately suspicious, he looks up. “Yeah.”
That’s what a 4.6 rating gets you, guys who think you are going to hurt them.
“Just so you know,” she presses on, “I can take you straight to the airport. It’s early. No traffic. Could probably be through security before that bus even leaves the curb.”
“Isn’t that…” he wants to say illegal, but he looks at her phone and pivots, “Expensive?”
Upselling is not illegal. “More than the bus. Less than the heart attack you’ll have when you hit a bus lane construction delay on the Parkway”
She hates that she mentioned a heart attack, because now she’s not only checking his breath for a whispered “Yes” but also for the aforementioned code blue.
“Nah,” he finally answers, retreating back into his phone. “I’ll take the bus.”
Of course you will, at least you won’t code in my car, she thinks as consolation.
“Right. Wise choice,” her professional mask is back on.
The ride lasts exactly ninety more seconds. And he gets off so fast, Mara can’t even try to help with the suitcase. No tip. No "thank you." But mercifully no rating yet.
9:18 am
$7.90
5 min (0.6 mi) away
Pickup: Allegheny West // Drop-off: North Side Giant Eagle (ETA: 5min)
Rush hour never truly materializes, except for a bunch of ordered and then immediately cancelled rides. Such is the fate of the 4.6 driver. So when this one pings without instantly evaporating, Mara accepts the 4.7 user’s request. A kindred spirit.
Accept.
9:22 am
The reason for this passenger’s rating is promptly revealed when Mara pulls up. Stroller next to her, the woman on the curb looks like she hasn’t slept in days. The confirmation that she is not picking up a serial killer, but a very capable mom, and the speedy resourcefulness of said mom when it comes to clipping in car seats and folding strollers, stops Mara from worrying.
“Thank you,” says the mom, when she finally settles. “He just fell asleep.”
Of course he did. And of course, there’s no way to confuse sleep with unconsciousness in babies, is there? His breathing seems fast from where Mara sits, driving like the car is made of glass. But maybe babies just breathe fast. Tiny lungs, quick rhythm, or is that a myth?
Mara hums and answers when appropriate, hearing all about the ongoing events in baby world.
Even the “Oh and the formula shortage!” from mom doesn’t rattle her, but she’d be lying if she said her breath didn’t catch at the mention of new vaccination guidelines.
Do I have the MMR? she wonders. She’ll have to check her vaccination card at home. Or maybe check her future passengers. It’s doubtful she’ll get five stars for the trouble.
The baby doesn’t so much as snort the entire way. But when they pull up to the Giant Eagle, Mara still pops out of the car like it grew springs. She carries out exactly one alive baby, his thankful mother providing the unfolded stroller that marks the end of the ride.
“You’re very kind,” beams the woman.
Mara smiles back and says nothing else. No sooner is she back in the car than she sees her rating tick up toward 4.7, along with a tip that’s exactly $2. No sooner is she finished with her little celebratory dance than another request pops up.
09:23 am
$10.40
1 min (0.1 mi) away
Pickup: Giant Eagle, Cedar Ave // Drop-off: Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center (ETA 5 min)
Accept.
Accepting before looking, big mistake. But it’s Mara’s first back to back request, and there’s maybe a 1 in 20 chance her passenger is the woman with a cane leaning against the wall. 19 out of the 20 possibilities walk past her hood without a second thought, with carts, or headphones, or sporting a leave-me-alone look.
The odds collapse fast. By the time Mara pulls up to the exact pin location on the other end of the parking lot, 1 in 20 becomes 1 in 1.
“Eloise!” shouts out Mara, still praying she’s wrong.
Eloise herself looks… fine. Especially given Mara’s limited expertise, but the cane and the destination tell another story. And her reply tells the rest. Mara simply can’t help but try to check her pulse when her fingers brush the woman’s wrist to help her into the Uber.
“Thank you, dear,” rasps out the woman, calmly settling into the backseat. Or is it too calm. “Sorry to make you get out,”
“It’s no problem,” Mara replies, pulled back into the quality service goal instead of the lifesaving mission she’s assigned herself. Insurance being what it is, maybe a visit to the ER doesn’t entail an emergency after all. “You doing okay today?” she probes.
“Yes,” the lady replies, somehow willing to explain her destination, probably due to the panicky driver she has. “Just going for wound dressing.”
Mirror, road, mirror, road, Mara’s eyes continue the incessant flick all the way to the hospital. If she could see the wound, or the dressing… well she wouldn’t know what to do. And anyway, the lady doesn’t offer to show them.
9:28 am
The ride is a mercifully short 5 minutes of green lights and side streets that Mara can now navigate expertly. All while also keeping track of the woman’s general status.
The last light comes with a choice, and Mara must now decide how rude it is to drop off a perfectly healthy individual at the ambulance bay. Not 5 star behavior, she tells herself choosing the pedestrian entrance.
“I can help you out,” she interjects, already unbuckling.
She’s in the middle of holding out her arm for Eloise to take when a “Hey!” coming from the entrance interrupts her brainwaves.
Ahmad is standing by the door, security jacket unmistakable, looking remarkably jovial for a guy who chased her out of the ER not 24 hours ago. Mara prepares to run, but between the old lady’s death grip and Ahmad’s relaxed posture she freezes.
The security guard isn’t running after her because he won’t have to. Eloise is doing a great job as a bounty hunter on her own.
With her “Oh, just to the door dear,” and “These floors just get so slick,” leading them straight to the entrance; straight to Ahmad. But 5 stars don’t come out of sprinting away from old ladies.
So down the path she goes with Eloise, acutely aware of Ahmad’s amused look as he shifts his body to follow their trajectory. When they pass him, he starts walking alongside, one and a half steps behind, unhurried as hell, big smile on his face.
“Just to the door,” was clearly a lie, Mara realizes this as she’s forced to step in line next to Eloise, Ahmad hanging back like a delighted shadow. A quick shadow too, because no sooner is the lady gone, without a tip mind you, Mara turns to find herself face to chest with the security guard.
“There’s a reward out for whoever finds you first,” he starts.
And it’s not that Mara ever fancied herself an outlaw but pride overtakes fear of consequences for a moment.
“Nice, maybe I should turn myself in then, cash it in,” she jokes, mostly.
Ahmad shakes his head, a huff of laughter escaping his nose. “I… don’t think Dr. Robby thought of it that way.”
Oh that changes things, it doubles up on the pride at least.
“Dr. Robby?” is looking for me, she wants to say before filtering it through irony. “What? Does he want to give me a gold star for saving a life.”
The security guard chuckles, shifting his weight. “He didn’t mention a sticker. Just said to find you.”
He ends this non explanation with a shrug that clearly says come find out, or don’t and walks away. It’s enough to reassure Mara that this isn’t an attempt to arrest her, but it’s also enough to spike her curiosity, and she follows.
09:36 am
The mystery of her apprehension unfurls with a speed that is decidedly un-emergency-room-like. Ahmad hasn’t led her anywhere really, not even the padded interrogation room she’d mentally prepared for. Instead, the security guard has parked her at the central nurse’s station and parked himself right alongside her.
Mara’s fairly certain she could leave, but for some reason the idea of Dr. Robinavitch, part time bouncer, part time Saturday morning cartoon, looking for her, makes her stand still.
“How long is this going to take? The parking authority is going to sell my Honda for scrap metal if I stay too long.” she finally mumbles.
“Patience,” says Ahmad, leaning against the counter, setting the example.
“You’re really not leaving?” asks Mara, “What, you think I’m a flight risk?”
“I’m not moving until I get my finder's fee,” he replies, suggesting he’s seen some brave attempts to escape. “I’ve got a kid who needs another round of braces. Every bounty counts.”
There’s barely time for Mara to come up with a new complaint, Ahmad is already waving.
“Hey, Dr. Robby! Fugitive apprehended!”
She still can’t process the nickname. Not when it’s for a serious looking guy, wearing glasses as he checks what are probably some vital stats on a tablet. The only indication he even heard Ahmad is the way his path veers slightly to the left, drifting towards the station. And he wants a nickname to pretend he moonlights on Sesame Street….
Dr. Robinavitch fits him better, especially when he lets his eyes linger on the tablet for 3 more seconds before looking up and, deliberately, sliding the glasses down his nose. He might as well be blinking Who is this? in Morse code.
Mara can’t help the laugh that comes out. “It’s Mara. You put out a reward for me? I’d hope you know what I look like.” she says, staying neutral. “If not it’s an easy scam.”
The doctor’s eyes close just long enough to suggest that Ahmad has been talking too much, and that he’s been caught. Nevertheless, $10 come out of his Carhartts, and land in the security guard’s palm.
“Ahmad doesn’t do scams,” he says, turning to her with what finally appears to be a smile, and tucking away his glasses.
The security guard snatches the $10, gives Mara a mock salute, and vanishes before she can tell him where to put it.
“Mara? right? Why don’t you walk with me?” he asks, rhetorically, since after the slick move of remembering her name 3 seconds after she said it, he doubles down with a guiding hand hovering over her shoulder.
Keeping up requires an annoying half-jogging speed, which she maintains, purely to ask the next question.
“Ten dollars? That’s it?”
“Budget’s tight,” he simply answers.
And between the bristling and the jogging Mara almost misses the signal to stop, which comes when he runs his hand under the sanitizer pump by a room door and looks at her expectantly. She only stops, wondering if he’s expecting her to scrub in too, but he just gives an unreadable smile.
He’s in bay 4 before this can turn into a staring contest, an un-hand-sanitized Mara following up to the threshold.
Inside, she recognizes Dr. King, standing over a teenager with a jagged cut on his arm.
“How we doing in here?” Dr. Robinavitch asks, stepping up with gloved hands.
“Uh… good,” King says without looking up. “Explored to fascia. No tendon exposure, no sensory loss. Irrigated, hemostasis achieved. I’m closing.”
“Good job, Dr. King,” he says simply, examining the hand for movement.
Mara can’t help it. She cranes her neck to check what constitutes a good job in his book, not knowing what she’s looking for or how many HIPAA violations this entails, but interested anyway.
Dr. Robinavitch doesn’t miss it, and gives her an amused sidelong glance that looks like he spotted a tell.
“What are you watching for?” he asks.
Mara’s shoulders tense before King mercifully takes the question that was obviously directed at her.
“Nerve damage,” King says, after a breath. “I ordered a plastic consult just to be safe.”
“Good,” he says, already stepping back, finally letting Mara catch her breath.
Gloves come off and his hand hits the sanitizer pump the moment they’re out the bay door. Mara visibly hesitates for a moment, which is a moment too long to copy him. He’s already walking.
“Ok, can you tell me about Big G?” he starts, suddenly more affable, when she catches up.
Mara’s brain, still downshifting from the cold calling and stuck on the implications of hand sanitizer use, takes another second to engage.
“I… I mean I don’t know anything about him.” she answers honestly.
Maybe it’s paranoia, but after witnessing the impromptu quiz with Dr. King, Mara’s waiting for the wrong answer buzzer to go off. The breath he gives isn’t exactly that, but it’s not a good job breath either.
“Walk me through what you know,” he pivots calmly. “Start when he got in the car.”
“I mean… he didn’t look great,” she says. “But he wasn’t like that when he got in.”
She desperately wishes for some more vocabulary, to sneak vasovagal somewhere in there, to express the situation, or to impress Robinavitch. He doesn’t look impressed, but he seems content with the imagery as is, because he’s already ducking into bay 6.
“Dr. Mohan, BP?”
“Still 190 over 110,” Mohan says, looking at the patient with a worrid look. “We started labetalol. Headache’s improved.”
“Okay.” he says, watching the monitor. “We’ll bump it up a notch, do five minute checks.”
Mohan slowly nods, still staring at the patient, right up until a nod from Robinavitch comes down like the law and gets her moving.
“I’ll have a nurse titrate,” she says, before stepping out.
And what follows is a good job breath from Robinavitch, clear as day.
The obligatory sanitizer pump signals he’s back with Mara, launching straight into another question.
“You’re confident it started in the car.”
“Yes, he was fine, then he was breathing hard and looking crazy. Why does this feel like an interrogation?” she bristles, not sure if it’s his tone or the 4.66 sword of damocles over her head making her react.
“It’s not,” he reassures, “It’s just a very specific sequence of events.”
Ironically it’s the calm that undoes her. The way he’s asking like he doesn’t quite believe her but he’s not angry at the fact, pulls it out of her.
“I have it on video!”
He swallows. Far be it from Mara to assume but, could that be a good job swallow?
“Show me?”
Fighting the imaginary charges to the end, rather than seeking medical glory, Mara pulls out her phone. And together they relive the worst 11 minutes of her life.
When it’s over, he simply puts out his palm like the decision’s been made.
“Okay. Let me run this over to Neuro.”
She quickly pulls back the phone into the safety of her hoodie, pre-emptively accusing him with her eyes.
“Just to convince them he needs a bed and it’s not chronic,” he explains calmly, before adding a simplified version, clearly seeing her expression, “Meaning, he’s not usually like that. They need the original file for the claim, metadata and all.”
“I don’t care if he’s usually like that,” she says, raising her voice. “I don’t usually jump on gurneys for $50 but if Uber finds out, I’m banned for life!”
Mara has learned that Dr. Robinavitch’s solution to most problems is to assume they are, fundamentally, manageable. He does it again now, and it somehow makes everything worse.
“Hey, you didn’t do anything wrong,” he says, towering over her like height will give him wisdom. “You responded to an emergency. You got him here alive. I’m just trying to keep him that way.”
“I can’t,” she says, settling on the answer that doesn’t ask to be solved. “That’s it.”
For a moment, he looks like he’s coming to terms with it, nodding slowly at the ground in what anyone would label acceptance.
“Okay,” he says calmly, eyes fixed down as his nod turns deliberate before finally looking up.
“Okay. Then this is what happens. If he decompensates, this becomes a preventable second event. It doesn’t get insurance coverage. The hospital gets sued. They ask who brought him in.”
It sounds so matter of fact, as easy as reading a weather report.
“You’re listed,” he says, as if she’d forgotten. “You get called as a witness. You’re pulled off shift to testify. Your phone gets logged as evidence. It sits in a locker while legal sorts out timelines.” He glances at the device. “Months, not days.”
“Well here’s what already happened,” she volleys back, bracing for the fight, “I saved his life.”
“I know,” he simply replies. “That’s why I’m still standing here talking to you.”
That’s not what she braced for. There’s no way his timeline is guaranteed, Mara knows that much, but it doesn’t feel made up either. So when he follows up with:
“Alright. If this isn’t an option, walk me through your alternative.” concentration softening his features.
She doesn’t have one.
She unlocks the screen with a trembling thumb and hands over the phone. The second it touches his palm, the tension evaporates with relieved sighs.
“Thank you,” he simply says, “I won’t keep it longer than necessary.”
Which is such a doctor's promise it makes Mara huff a laugh that releases some of the pressure within. She doesn’t need it now that he’s sprinting to the elevators.
The promise of cleansing the rest of this scene from her mind catches her eye, and she finally slides a hand under a hand-sanitizer pump.
It only helps a little.