Chapter 8 - The Strategy of the Field
Six months later.
The intersection of Michigan Avenue and Lake Street was full of the bright, hot light of a Chicago June. The sidewalk where Margaret Hargrove had collapsed was now clean, dry, and crowded with tourists holding iced coffees and shoppers carrying bags from the Magnificent Mile.
A large, white mobile simulation unit—a state-of-the-art training ambulance bearing the logo Hargrove Field Strategy Initiative—was parked near the curb, its side doors open to reveal two high-fidelity medical mannequins and a row of digital diagnostic screens.
Nora Callahan stood by the unit’s rear bumper, wearing a tailored navy silk shirt, her dark slacks clean, her old paramedic certification pin fastened to her collar. She carried a tablet that showed the live tracking data for forty-two new emergency transport vehicles that had been integrated into the city’s municipal system over the winter.
"The turnaround time at Lakeshore Municipal has dropped by fourteen minutes per unit," a voice said from behind her.
Nora didn't look back; she smiled as she swiped to the next data screen. "That’s because we stopped counting the minutes they spend with the patients and started counting the minutes they spend waiting for the billing codes at the intake desk."
Julian Hargrove walked up beside her, his jacket off in the summer heat, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looked at the mobile unit with a sense of quiet satisfaction. He had spent the last six months fighting the company’s minority shareholders to secure the funding for the field initiative, using the data Nora had gathered from her midnight shifts to prove that clinical efficiency was cheaper than legal liability.
"My mother is approving the second allocation for the Indiana clinics tomorrow," Julian said, leaning his hip against the ambulance bumper. "She wants the new wing named after your old partner from Unit Fourteen. The one who complained about your overtime."
Nora laughed, the sound bright and clear over the traffic noise of Michigan Avenue. "He’ll hate that. He always said corporate names on buildings were a scam for tax write-offs."
"It is a scam for a tax write-off," Julian murmured, his gray eyes turning to her face with a warmth that had become increasingly familiar over the last few months. "But it’s a scam that keeps twenty-two pediatric cardiac monitors active in a county that didn't have one last spring."
May you like
He reached out, his long, scarred fingers gently touching the silver pin on her collar. "You're late for the executive lunch, Nora. The panel has been waiting for ten minutes."
"Let them wait," Nora said, her eyes locking onto his with that steady, fearless gravity that had once frozen his pen above her folder. "The Chief of Compliance is currently verifying data in the field."
