Million Dollar Medicine

C2

The studio was a well-oiled machine—bright lights, sleek set design, and a crew that moved with clockwork precision. The air smelled of makeup powder and freshly brewed coffee, a familiar blend that clung to Nathan’s senses as he settled into his chair.

This wasn’t his first interview, nor would it be his last. He knew how to play the game—how to tilt his head just right, how to pause for effect, how to deliver complex ideas in digestible soundbites that made him seem both authoritative and approachable.

And it worked.

The interviewer across from him smiled as she moved through the segment, her voice smooth, her body language engaged. He answered each question with the kind of confidence that came from years of practice, his tone effortless, his words deliberate.

"Dr. Hayes, with so many advancements in modern medicine, what do you believe is the most exciting breakthrough on the horizon?"

Nathan leaned back slightly, offering an easy, knowing smile. It was a question he could answer in his sleep.

"Personalized medicine is revolutionizing how we treat patients," he said, his voice steady and measured. "Tailoring treatments to an individual's genetic makeup has the potential to eliminate trial-and-error prescriptions. It’s the future, and frankly, it's already here."

The interviewer beamed, nodding as if she were genuinely impressed. "Fascinating," she said, before seamlessly transitioning to the next topic. "And what about alternative medicine? More and more people are turning to holistic approaches for their health. What are your thoughts on that?"

His jaw tensed, but only for a fraction of a second. He kept his posture relaxed, his smile in place.

"There’s nothing wrong with patients wanting to explore their options," he began smoothly, the practiced response rolling off his tongue. "However, the issue arises when unproven remedies replace scientifically-backed treatments. Modern medicine isn’t perfect, but it's rooted in decades of research and real results. Alternative medicine, more often than not, lacks the rigorous studies necessary to prove its efficacy. Misinformation can be dangerous."

There. A balanced, diplomatic answer. Not dismissive enough to spark outrage, not supportive enough to validate pseudoscience.

But even as he said it, a strange, unwelcome thought crept in.

Misinformation can be dangerous.

So could the things being pushed under his own name.

Nathan knew better than most that not everything in modern medicine was as clean-cut as the public believed. He had seen experimental drugs rushed to market, lauded as medical marvels before their long-term effects were even understood. He had witnessed the pressure to endorse products not because they were the best, but because they were profitable.

How many times had his PR team fed him talking points for treatments he hadn’t personally researched? How often had he signed off on recommendations, trusting that the data behind them was sound, simply because that’s what was expected of him?

It wasn’t a perfect system. Far from it.

But that didn’t mean that the woman who was his personal adversary, Isla Wells, was right.

She was just as reckless in her own way, promoting remedies that had little to no scientific backing. Yet, unlike him, she didn’t have to answer to corporate interests, to investors, to public scrutiny. She got to play the underdog, the rebel, the doctor who actually cares—while he was the one painted as the out-of-touch, money-hungry villain.

It pissed him off.

The interviewer’s expression shifted slightly, something flickering behind her eyes. He recognized that look instantly—she was setting him up for something.

"Speaking of alternative approaches," she said, her tone casual but laced with something sharper, "we recently had Dr. Isla Wells on the show. I imagine you’ve heard of her?"

His fingers curled subtly against the armrest of his chair. Of course, he had.

Nathan fought the flicker of irritation that threatened to surface. Isla Wells had been a thorn in his side for years—not because they had ever met, but because her name always seemed to creep into conversations about healthcare reform and alternative treatment options. She had built a reputation as a champion of holistic medicine, a woman unafraid to challenge the pharmaceutical industry and call out what she saw as corporate greed.

And somehow, her name always ended up beside his.

"Dr. Wells runs the Desert Bloom Clinic in Nevada," the interviewer continued, watching him closely. "Her approach to medicine is vastly different from yours, but she’s built quite the reputation. What do you make of her work?"

Nathan exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing himself to keep his expression neutral.

"Dr. Wells and I seem to be on opposite ends of the spectrum, don’t we?" he said, allowing himself a light chuckle. "But hey—differences in opinion drive progress."

It was the safe answer. The smart answer. He could have left it at that, pivoted the conversation back to his research, and moved on.

But something about the way the interviewer was looking at him, waiting for him to say more—something about the way Isla’s name had been brought up as if she were his equal—made his spine stiffen.

The words left his mouth before he could think better of them.

"You know what? Let’s make this interesting," he said, leaning forward slightly, his voice taking on a note of challenge but keeping its effortless charm. "The next medical conference in Seattle—I’ll be speaking there. Let’s invite Dr. Wells to join me on a live, televised panel. A real conversation about science, medicine, and what’s best for the future of healthcare."

The interviewer lit up at the suggestion. "Now that would be something to see."

Nathan flashed a confident grin, rolling with the momentum of the moment. "I think it’s time we put these differing perspectives to the test."

The segment wrapped shortly after, the interviewer gushing about how exciting this potential debate could be. Nathan played along, smiling, shaking hands with the production crew, nodding as the producers talked about follow-up engagements.

But the second the cameras powered down and the studio noise faded into background chatter, a different sensation settled in his chest.

What the hell did I just do?

It wasn’t that he doubted his ability to debate Isla Wells—he had spent years tearing down flimsy, anecdotal-based arguments. If she thought she could walk onto a stage and sell her brand of wellness to a live audience while he stood across from her armed with data, she was in for a rude awakening.

But still…

Nathan exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face.

He had spent years carefully curating his image. Polished. Professional. A man of science, not theatrics.

And yet, in the span of thirty seconds, he had publicly challenged Isla Wells to a debate—live, no less.

This was going to be a circus.

And, for the first time in a long time, Nathan wasn’t entirely sure he had made the right move.

That evening, after a long afternoon of second guessing his choices, nathan sat alone in his gym, huffing into the cool air trying to steady his heart. It wasn’t the cardio he had just finished, although that surely contributed to its increased rate. No, it felt more like panic. He had had several points in his career when he needed to be reminded of what was actually important. What he could truly give to the world. And then he was in another world, in another time.

Nathan sat cross-legged on the thick rug in the living room, building an uneven tower of plastic blocks with the singular focus only a six-year-old could muster. His small hands carefully stacked a red block on top of a blue one, eyes narrowing in concentration. It wobbled slightly, and he held his breath, willing it to stay upright.

A few feet away, on the worn brown couch, his little brother, Jake, sat with a pencil clutched in his hand. His tongue poked out slightly in concentration as he drew broad, crooked shapes in his coloring book. Nathan glanced over occasionally, making sure Jake was still sitting up. It was a habit—one he barely noticed anymore.

The sun poured in through the wide front window, casting long streaks of light over the floor. Outside, someone was mowing a lawn. The distant, rhythmic hum of the motor mixed with the soft tapping of Jake’s pencil. It was a perfectly normal afternoon.

“Hey, Nate,” Jake mumbled without looking up, his voice still thick with the roundness of toddler speech. “What’s this one called again?” He jabbed a tiny finger at the misshapen outline of a dog he’d drawn.

Nathan squinted at it, abandoning his wobbly tower to lean closer. It kind of looked like a dog—a very fat one with lopsided legs. “Uh… a dinosaur,” Nathan teased with a grin, nudging Jake’s shoulder.

Jake snorted, his gap-toothed smile wide and carefree. “Nuh-uh!” he protested through a giggle, pushing Nathan’s arm back.

They wrestled half-heartedly, the coloring book slipping off Jake’s lap and landing on the floor with a soft thud. Jake twisted around and leaned forward to grab it, his small fingers barely brushing the edge. Nathan automatically reached for it too, about to help, when Jake suddenly stilled.

The boy’s hand hovered just above the book. His fingers stiffened slightly, curling inward with a slow, unnatural motion. The pencil slipped from his grip, rolling soundlessly across the rug.

Nathan’s breath hitched, but he didn’t panic. He just… waited.

He knew what was coming.

Jake’s back gave a slight jerk. His head tipped to the side, and a faint trembling started in his hands. His breaths became shallow, fluttery, and uneven.

Nathan quietly sat back on his heels. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his t-shirt, but he didn’t look away. Didn’t call for their mom. Not yet.

Instead, he counted.

One… two… three…

His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall, marking the time. He knew the drill. If it lasted longer than two minutes, then he was supposed to yell for help. That’s what their mom had told him. But most of the time, Jake was okay.

“Almost done,” Nathan whispered softly, his voice barely a breath. “You’re okay, Jakey.”

He didn’t know if his brother could hear him, but he kept talking anyway. It was a thing their mom did, and Nathan had started doing it too.

By the time he reached thirty-nine in his head, the tremors began to slow. Jake’s hand twitched once more, then stilled.

With a shaky exhale, he blinked and sat up straighter. His eyes were hazy, distant for a moment, and then slowly refocused on Nathan’s face.

“Hey,” Nathan said softly, shifting closer, offering a careful smile.

Jake stared at him for a beat, still catching his breath. Then, as if nothing had happened, he gave a crooked, tired smile. “I win,” he rasped, a little dazed.

Nathan let out a breathless laugh. He pulled the coloring book into his lap and handed Jake his pencil again, his own hands still trembling slightly. “Yeah, okay. You win.”

A few minutes later, their mom poked her head into the living room. She paused when she saw them sitting quietly—Nathan watching Jake draw as if nothing had happened. Her eyes softened, but she didn’t ask. She already knew.

Nathan glanced up at her and offered a reassuring smile.

“Everything’s fine, Mom,” he said brightly, patting Jake’s shoulder.

And for the most part, it was.