Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92899 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92899 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
After lunch, Robyn appeared with a mischievous glint in her eye that usually meant “a super-fun activity” for someone. This time, apparently, that someone was all of us.
“Alright, listen up,” she announced, clipboard in hand. “We’re doing something a little different this afternoon. Since you’ll all be moving to your new rotations tomorrow, Trace and I put together a friendly team-building competition. Winner gets first pick at tonight’s s’mores supplies. I’ll tell you more when we get to the trailhead.”
Once we were there, she waved us over to a couple of nearby picnic tables, where she placed a brown paper bag on the center table.
“We’re dividing up into two teams, on the hunt for a missing person. The twist is that your instructors will be equal members of the team, if they’re up for it. You can use them as resources however you want. Each team will get a fabricated patient history, recent medical records, a medication list, terrain maps, weather data, and witness statements. First team to locate and properly assess the victim without additional evidence wins.”
Everyone chattered with excitement as she explained that the instructors had already been divided up, but the students would be drawing numbers to see who was on which team for the game.
I felt a competitive spark ignite in my chest. It had been years since I’d been a true member of a SAR team, so I relished the chance to play. Problem-solving under pressure, medical deduction, teamwork—all the things that had drawn me to emergency medicine in the first place.
“Dr. Marian,” Cody said, grinning widely, “I got Yellow Team. Please tell me you’re in.”
“I am.” I pulled on the yellow buff Robyn handed me and glanced across the field where Foster—in a blue buff—stood with his arms crossed, one eyebrow raised in what looked suspiciously like a challenge. When our eyes met, his mouth curved into that slow, devastating smile that made my pulse spike.
“Game on, Sheriff,” I called, earning whoops of approval from my team.
Foster’s answering grin was sharp as a blade. “Hope you’re ready to lose, Doc.”
The next hour unfolded like the world’s most entertaining puzzle. Yellow Team—which comprised me, Tevita, Gus, and our students—huddled around a picnic table, mostly focusing on the fabricated medical records Robyn had provided. Our missing person was a fifty-three-year-old male with a history of diabetes, recent knee surgery, and a prescription for pain medication that could cause disorientation.
“Look at this,” Sierra said, pointing to the medication list. “Oxycodone prescribed three days ago, but the bottle’s nearly empty. Either he’s not following dosing instructions, or…”
“Or he’s having breakthrough pain that’s affecting his judgment,” I finished. “Good call. Someone in that much discomfort isn’t going to be thinking clearly about navigation.”
Meanwhile, I could see Foster’s team poring over topographic maps, Marcus tracing elevation lines with his finger while Jenna studied weather pattern reports from the past twenty-four hours.
“The witness statement says he was headed for Miller’s Point,” Marcus was saying, voice carrying across the meadow. “But look at this terrain. If he was disoriented, he could have easily taken the wrong fork at Cascade Junction.”
“And if he did,” Foster added, “he’d end up in Willow Basin instead. Classic mistake for someone not thinking clearly.”
I felt a thrill of professional appreciation watching him work. Foster’s tactical mind was impressive—the way he could read terrain like a story, predict human behavior under stress, see patterns that others missed.
“Dr. Marian?” Sierra’s voice pulled me back to our own strategizing. “Earth to Tommy?”
Heat crept up my neck. “Sorry. What were you saying?”
“I said, based on his medical history and current medications, where would you expect to find him?”
I forced myself to focus on the papers in front of me, but I remained acutely aware of Foster’s presence across the field. The confident way he moved, the respect his students showed him, the occasional burst of laughter from his team that made me want to be part of their inner circle.
Concentrate, Marian.
“Okay,” I said, studying the medication list again. “Diabetic, recently post-surgical, probably in pain, and possibly not thinking clearly. He’s going to seek shelter somewhere comfortable—not necessarily the most logical hiding spot, but somewhere that feels safe.”
“Like where?” Cody asked.
I thought about it, remembering my own experiences with post-surgical patients. “Somewhere enclosed but not claustrophobic. Somewhere he can sit or lie down comfortably. Maybe somewhere that reminds him of home.”
Twenty minutes later, both teams converged on a small wooden shelter near the base of Miller’s Point—Foster’s team arriving thirty seconds ahead of us, but my team carrying a more comprehensive treatment plan for the “victim” we found inside.
“Only a doctor,” Foster muttered as we debriefed later, “would win a rescue challenge by diagnosing a sprained ankle from a half-eaten Clif bar wrapper.”
“Clinical deduction based on years of treating post-surgical patients with complications,” I protested, grinning.