E L L A R A
The clipboard slaps the counter like a gavel.
“Drills start now. If you’re late, you run laps. If you complain, you run more.”
Three staffers stare back at me with Asha, wide-eyed but game; Tomas, an ex-paramedic whose last boss apparently let him nap through night shifts; and Anya, who looks like she’d rather be on a beach massage table than in scrubs. They’re mine now. And I’m not letting Seraphine chew them up the way New York chewed me.
“Shift report forms are standardized,” I continue, clicking a pen. “Vitals logged every four hours. Emergency packs checked at dawn. If I catch one expired ampule or unlabeled med, you’re scrubbing every cabinet with a toothbrush.”
Tomas raises a hand, half-c****d. “Wait.. are we… Are we actually running laps?”
Asha hides a snort behin
