Million Dollar Medicine

C1P2

A giggle from the nurses brought Isla back to the room she was standing in.

Isla scoffed, loud enough for the nurses to hear. "Oh, for heaven’s sake. Someone turn that garbage off."

A few of them jumped, guilty. Others just smirked, knowing exactly how much she loathed him. Nurse Johnson, a seasoned professional in her fifties with zero tolerance for games, leaned against the counter with an amused expression. "He’s easy on the eyes, though."

"So is a rattlesnake until it bites you," Isla shot back. "Now, unless Dr. Hayes has decided to give up his God complex and come work for free in a real clinic, let’s focus, shall we? We’ve got a full schedule today."

A round of chuckles rippled through the group, but they got the message. One by one, the nurses peeled away, heading back to their respective stations. The TV clicked off with a sharp beep, leaving behind only the usual clinic sounds: the shuffle of paperwork, the quiet murmur of conversations, the steady beeping of a patient monitor in one of the exam rooms.

She exhaled, rubbing her temples.

Hayes had always grated on her nerves. It wasn’t just the arrogance—though that was bad enough. It was the way he presented medicine as if it were some exclusive club, only accessible to those who could afford the best and brightest. He preached advancement, but only for those who could pay for it. And to Isla, that was the worst kind of betrayal.

She had built her clinic from the ground up, using every cent of her inheritance and every hour of her energy to make sure the people in this part of southern Nevada had access to real, practical care. Not just the ones who had top-tier insurance or deep pockets. Everyone.

And yet, every time she turned on a screen, there he was. Peddling his latest theory. Smiling that perfect, infuriating smile.

"Dr. Wells?" A voice pulled her from her thoughts. Nurse Lillian, young and eager, stood in the doorway of an exam room, her hands folded in front of her. "Room three is ready for you."

"Thanks, Lillian. Be right there."

She grabbed the tablet from the counter, glancing at the patient notes as she made my way to the room. A routine checkup, nothing too complicated. Isla let out a slow breath, resetting her focus.

The clinic hummed with quiet efficiency, the scent of dried herbs mingling with the sterile bite of antiseptic. Sunlight streamed through the front windows, casting warm patches on the well-worn tile floor. The reception desk, cluttered but functional, held neatly stacked clipboards and a small jar of honey sticks—one of Buela’s traditions that Isla had kept alive. A “sweet distraction,” she used to say, for children nervous about their visit.

Isla moved through the narrow hallway toward Room Three, trying to shake the lingering irritation from her mind. Nathan Hayes was a distraction she couldn’t afford, not when real people needed her.

She took a deep breath before stepping into the exam room.

Inside, a young woman sat on the edge of the table, her fingers knotted together in her lap. Mid-twenties, maybe, with dark circles under her eyes and a restless energy that made her knee bounce. She looked up at Isla, offering a quick, uncertain smile.

“Hey, Dr. Wells.”

“Hey, Jenna,” Isla greeted warmly, closing the door behind her. “It’s good to see you again. How have things been?”

Jenna let out a breathy laugh. “Well, I haven’t had a panic attack in the middle of the grocery store this week, so that’s a win.”

Isla set her tablet down on the counter and leaned against it, keeping her posture relaxed. “That is a win. Have you been taking the ashwagandha and passionflower tincture we talked about?”

Jenna nodded. “Yeah, and I think it’s helping. It doesn’t hit me like a truck the way those prescription meds did. I just… I don’t know, I feel steadier, like I can manage the anxiety instead of being knocked out by it.”

“That’s exactly the goal,” Isla said, smiling. “Medication can have its place, but your body isn’t meant to be chemically sedated into submission. We want to help it rebalance itself naturally.”

Jenna’s smile faltered a little. “My doctor wasn’t thrilled when I told him I wanted to try something different.”

Isla had heard that before. “Did he try to scare you out of it?”

Jenna snorted. “Oh, definitely. He said my anxiety is a chemical imbalance and that all this herbal stuff is just placebo.” She looked down, twisting her fingers together. “But the thing is, I feel better. And I’m not walking around in a fog anymore. That has to count for something, right?”

“It counts for everything,” Isla reassured her. “Your body is telling you what it needs. You’re listening to it. That’s more than most doctors will ever give you credit for.”

Jenna exhaled slowly, nodding. “I just want to feel normal. Like I can function without feeling like I’m crawling out of my skin.”

“And you will,” Isla promised. “We’ll keep adjusting your treatment plan until we find the right balance for you. You’re not alone in this.”

Jenna’s shoulders relaxed slightly, and for the first time, she looked hopeful.

As Isla made notes in the chart, she felt a quiet sense of satisfaction settle over her.

This was why she fought so hard for holistic medicine. Not because she was against modern medicine, but because people deserved more than just a prescription slip and a condescending pat on the head.

She had built this clinic to give them options.

And no amount of media-darling doctors like Nathan Hayes would make her forget that.

After finishing up with Jenna, Isla took a deep breath and glanced at the schedule on her tablet. One more patient before lunch.

As she walked toward the next exam room, her mind drifted back to Nathan Hayes, her jaw tightening at the thought.

People like him—the ones who sat on million-dollar research grants and acted as if they were the gatekeepers of real medicine—would never understand the kind of work she did here. To them, healing was a luxury. A privilege for those with the right insurance card or a bank account deep enough to buy their way into care.

Nathan paraded around like some messiah of modern medicine, but what about people like her next patient? People who didn’t have the safety net of premium insurance? People who had fallen through the cracks?

She pushed open the door to Room Four.

Inside, a man sat on the exam table, his posture slumped, his fingers nervously twisting the hem of his flannel shirt. He was in his early forties, maybe, with tired eyes and a face lined with the weight of too many worries.

“Mr. Calloway?” Isla greeted, offering him a warm smile as she stepped inside.

He looked up, managing a small, weary smile. “Dr. Wells. Thanks for seeing me.”

“Of course,” she said, settling into the chair across from him. She glanced at his chart. “It says here you’ve been experiencing fatigue, brain fog, and trouble regulating your body temperature?”

He nodded, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah. And muscle weakness. It’s like… no matter how much I sleep, I wake up feeling like I ran a marathon. My hands shake sometimes. My heart pounds at random. It’s like my body just quit on me.”

“Has anyone given you a formal diagnosis?”

He exhaled heavily, nodding. “I saw a doctor a few months ago—when I still had insurance. He ran some tests and told me I have autoimmune thyroiditis.”

Isla frowned. “Hashimoto’s?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.” His voice was bitter. “He gave me a prescription for thyroid hormone replacement, said it’d help. And it was helping. But before the first month was up, I got fired.”

Her stomach sank. “Because of your symptoms?”

He scoffed. “Hard to keep a job when you can’t think straight or stay awake long enough to finish a shift. After that, I lost my insurance, and I haven’t been able to afford another visit or refill my meds since. That was two months ago. Now everything’s getting worse, and I don’t know what to do.”

Isla’s grip on her tablet tightened.

This was exactly the kind of thing that infuriated her about the system. A man’s health—his entire life—had crumbled just because he couldn’t afford a bottle of medication.

Nathan Hayes would call that unfortunate. A byproduct of a flawed system. He’d shake his head sympathetically, maybe even donate to some foundation that claimed to help people like Mr. Calloway. But he wouldn’t see him. Not the way Isla did.

“I want to help,” Isla said, setting her tablet down and meeting his eyes. “We can’t get you back on the prescription right away, but I want to work with you on managing your symptoms holistically while we figure out a plan. No charge.”

His head jerked up. “Wait—what?”

She smiled gently. “I don’t think anyone should have to suffer just because they hit a rough patch. If you’re willing to work with me, I’d like to try some natural therapies while we explore options for long-term treatment.”

His eyes shone, and for a moment, he looked too stunned to speak. “Dr. Wells, I—I don’t even know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. Just come back later this week so we can go over some strategies in detail.” She reached for one of the glass jars on the counter and pulled out a small sachet of herbs, placing it in his hands. “For now, try this. It’s a blend of chamomile, lemon balm, and valerian root—herbs that help calm the nervous system. Stress can make your symptoms worse, so let’s start by getting that under control.”

He swallowed hard, gripping the sachet like it was something precious. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice thick. “I—I really mean that. No one else would even listen to me.”

Isla smiled softly. “Well, I’m listening. And we’ll figure this out together.”

As she walked him out of the room, she felt a deep sense of satisfaction settle in her chest.

This was why she fought so hard. This was why she refused to back down, no matter how many Nathan Hayeses tried to tell her she was wasting her time.

Because real medicine wasn’t about prestige or power.

It was about people.

And she would never forget that.