Witching Hour
1240 Words
The Alibi Room – Gastown, Vancouver
POV: Eliana Woods
The rain in Vancouver had transitioned from a relentless soak to a fine, clinging mist by the time the heavy glass doors of Medville finally released them. It was nearly midnight. Eliana’s legs felt like lead weights, and her brain felt like a browser with too many tabs open, all of them screaming.
"If I don't get a pint of something cold and a plate of something fried in the next ten minutes, I am going to perform an emergency appendectomy on myself just for the thrill of the anesthesia,"
Sarah Miller groaned. Her voice was raspy from eighteen hours of patient intake, her blonde bun now a chaotic nest of loose strands.
"I’m fairly sure that violates at least three bylaws, Sarah," Eliana laughed, the sound rusty but genuine. She had traded her navy scrubs for a pair of high-waisted vintage jeans and a cream cashmere sweater she’d kept in her locker. She looked less like a surgical prodigy and more like the twenty-seven-year-old woman she was supposed to be.
"Don't start with the bylaws, Woods," Mark Williams muttered, adjusting his glasses as they piled into a taxi. "I’ve heard enough British-accented rules today to last me a lifetime. To the Alibi Room, driver. Step on it."
The pub was a subterranean sanctuary of exposed brick, reclaimed wood, and the low, comforting hum of people who weren't dying. They found a corner booth near the back, tucked away from the windows and the street-level noise of Gastown. The lighting was amber and forgiving, hiding the dark circles under their eyes and the pale, sterile washed-out look of their skin.
"Three pitchers of the local IPA and enough poutine to clog a healthy artery," Mark ordered before the server could even say hello.
As the first pitcher arrived, the three of them collapsed into the leather bench like soldiers returning from a front line. The condensation on the glass was cold and honest against Eliana’s palm. She took a long, slow sip, letting the hops cut through the lingering taste of hospital coffee and latex.
"So," Sarah said, leaning her head back against the cushion and closing her eyes. "Eliana. Give us the dirt. How did you survive a full day as the Ice King’s personal punching bag? Most interns are crying in the supply closet by lunch when they’re on his service."
Eliana traced the rim of her glass, her social butterfly instincts kicking in as she relaxed. "He’s... a lot. He quotes the rules like they’re holy scripture. It’s intimidating, standing next to someone who is six-foot-five and speaks like he’s narrating a documentary on how to be perfect."
"It’s more than that," Mark said, pointing a fry at her. "The way he looked at you in the lecture hall? I thought he was going to either deport you or give you a medal. The tension was so thick I could’ve sutured it. Is he always that intense?"
If only you knew about the protein bar in the stairwell, Eliana thought, a faint flush touching her cheeks. Or the way he whispered that he was protecting me from our fathers.
"He’s just hard on legacies," Eliana said instead, her voice smooth. "He wants to make sure I’m not just a name on a wing. Honestly? I don't blame him. My father isn't exactly easy to work for, and I imagine Sterling Vance is even worse."
"Is it true?" Sarah asked, her voice softening as she leaned in. "That your dad and his dad basically own half of Vancouver’s medical real estate? I heard they’ve been trying to merge their firms for a decade and that you two are basically the 'prince and princess' of Medville."
Eliana sighed, the weight of the "Woods" name returning even here, miles away from the wards. "They’re old-school. They see everything as a merger. The hospital, the staff... probably even us. To them, we are just high-performing assets that need to be managed."
"God, that sounds exhausting," Mark muttered, lifting his glass. "I thought my parents were bad because they wanted me to be an accountant. At least they didn't build a cathedral of neurosurgery to trap me in."
I’d lose my mind if I had to eat lunch with the Board every week."
"To being assets," Sarah toasted, her eyes sparkling with a mix of mischief and pure exhaustion. "And to surviving 1st week without accidentally killing anyone or falling asleep in a patient's chart."
Eliana clinked her glass against theirs. "I think I can manage the 'not killing anyone' part. But the sleep? That’s a gamble."
The conversation shifted, the three of them finally acting like the twenty-somethings they were outside of the hospital walls. They talked about their lives before Medville—Sarah’s obsession with marathon running, Mark’s failed career as a jazz pianist, and Eliana’s love for the hidden art galleries tucked away in Vancouver’s side streets. For the first time in years, Eliana didn't feel like a "Woods." She felt like part of a pack.
"You’re actually really cool, you know?" Sarah said, a bit tipsy as they reached the bottom of the second pitcher. "I expected you to be... I don't know, a snob. The 'genius' who grew up in a mansion on the hill. But you’re a total social butterfly. How do you do it? The brain and the people skills?"
"Practice," Eliana said, her gaze drifting to the warm amber glow of the pub’s bar. "My father hosted three galas a year. I learned how to read a room and charm a donor before I learned how to read a lab report. It’s a survival mechanism."
"Well, it worked," Mark said, leaning back. "Because Sarah and I were ready to hate you on principle this morning. Now? I’d probably let you assist on my own brain surgery. Maybe."
"High praise, Mark. I’m touched," Eliana teased, feeling a genuine sense of belonging.
As the night wore on, the talk turned to the other residents and the "bylaws" they had all spent the day breaking or dodging. They shared stories of Dr. Aris’s temper and the terrifying efficiency of the scrub nurses. It was a bonding ritual fueled by grease and ale, a way to compartmentalize the trauma of the day before they had to go back and do it all again in five hours.
"What’s the plan for tomorrow?" Sarah asked, stifling a massive yawn.
"More rounds. More charts. More of Vance's British-New York scolding," Eliana said, though her heart gave a strange, traitorous little skip at the mention of the Chief.
"He’s handsome, though," Sarah added, wagging her eyebrows. "In a 'I will destroy your soul and then save your life' kind of way. If he weren't so terrifying, he’d be the ultimate catch."
"He’s thirty-eight, Sarah. He’s the boss. And he’s about as romantic as a sterile field," Eliana lied, her voice steady even as she remembered the scent of cedar and espresso.
"Still," Mark added with a grin. "At least he's not boring. Imagine being stuck on a service with a boring Chief. At least with Vance, you're always wondering if you're going to be fired or promoted."
"Or both," Eliana muttered.
- Writer
