Part of what motivated my writing was anger. I was angry that the

Host: The city lay under the rain, its streets gleaming like surgical steel beneath the flicker of hospital lights. Ambulances came and went like white ghosts, their sirens cutting through the night in fractured cries. The smell of antiseptic and coffee hung in the air—that strange blend of hope and exhaustion that every hospital wears like a second skin.

In the break room, the fluorescent light hummed faintly, casting everything in an anemic glow. Jack, his scrubs stained with blood, sat slouched in a plastic chair, his hands shaking slightly as he unwrapped a sandwich he wouldn’t eat. Across from him, Jeeny stared at the rain outside, her stethoscope still around her neck, her eyes heavy with fatigue that went deeper than sleep could touch.

Pinned to the bulletin board beside them was a faded poster: “You make a difference, every day.” Beneath it, someone had scribbled in pen: “Even when no one notices.”

Host: It was three in the morning. Somewhere down the corridor, a patient’s monitor beeped, steady as a heartbeat. On the television mounted in the corner, a rerun of a glossy medical drama played—doctors with perfect hair saving lives in thirty minutes.

That’s when Jeeny spoke.

Jeeny: “Jed Mercurio once said his writing was driven by anger,” she murmured, not taking her eyes off the screen. “Anger that real doctors, nurses, and patients were reduced to soap opera. That our misery was rewritten into something clean, romantic, and fast.”

Jack: “He wasn’t wrong.”

Jeeny: “No. But sometimes I wonder if anger is enough.”

Jack: “Sometimes it’s all you have left.”

Host: He took a sip of cold coffee, grimacing, his grey eyes fixed on the TV where an actor in a spotless coat was declaring love over an operating table.

Jack: “You ever notice how no one in those shows ever loses? No one’s hand trembles. No one breaks down after a twelve-hour shift. No one forgets a face that died on their watch. It’s all victory speeches and background music.”

Jeeny: “Because pain doesn’t sell, Jack. Hope does.”

Jack: “Hope’s supposed to be honest. What they sell isn’t hope—it’s anesthesia.”

Host: A clatter of trays echoed from the hall. Someone was crying softly—too softly for words, too loudly for comfort.

Jeeny: “Do you remember Mrs. Patel in ICU last week?”

Jack: “Of course I do.”

Jeeny: “Her daughter kept saying, ‘They’ll fix her, right? Like on TV?’”

Jack: “Yeah.” He laughed, bitterly. “She thought we’d pull out some miracle procedure in the last ten minutes. But medicine isn’t television. Most of the time, it’s just—delay.”

Jeeny: “And still we try.”

Jack: “Because we’re supposed to. But you start to resent it. You start to resent them—the ones who write those scripts, who make it look easy. They paint over the blood, the fear, the mistakes. They make gods out of humans and shame out of exhaustion.”

Jeeny: “You think that’s why you’re so angry all the time?”

Jack: “I’m not angry.”

Jeeny: “Then what are you?”

Host: The silence was long, heavy, filled with the hum of machines and the soft hiss of the ventilation system. The rain outside beat harder against the windows, like a world knocking to be let in.

Jack: “Tired,” he said finally. “Tired of pretending we’re heroes when we’re just people holding the line.”

Jeeny: “You sound like Mercurio himself.”

Jack: “Maybe because he’s the only one who ever told the truth. ‘We were made to feel bad because we weren’t perfect,’ he said. Damn right. I’ve had interns cry because they didn’t save someone who was already gone. Because the script in their heads didn’t match the chaos of reality.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t anger dangerous, Jack? Doesn’t it turn into cynicism?”

Jack: “Only if you stop fighting. Anger’s the pulse that reminds you the heart’s still working.”

Host: He leaned back, staring at the ceiling, the light above him buzzing faintly, casting a shadow that made his face look both tired and defiant.

Jeeny: “I used to believe in the hero myth, you know. The idea that we could fix everything if we just cared enough.”

Jack: “And?”

Jeeny: “Then I realized caring doesn’t guarantee success. It just guarantees heartbreak. But maybe heartbreak’s where the truth lives.”

Host: The TV in the corner flickered—a scene where a doctor confessed his love as the patient suddenly miraculously recovered. Jeeny looked away, her eyes wet with both anger and fatigue.

Jack: “You know what I wish?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “That for once, they’d show what happens after the code blue. The silence. The charting. The way you walk out of the room, smile at the next patient, and pretend you didn’t just lose someone. That’s the real drama. That’s the truth.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why Mercurio wrote what he did. Not to glorify the pain—but to humanize it.”

Jack: “Or maybe he just wanted to scream.”

Host: A faint beep in the distance. Someone’s heart monitor. A slow, steady rhythm. Life continuing—barely, stubbornly.

Jeeny: “You ever think anger can become compassion?”

Jack: “How do you mean?”

Jeeny: “I mean… maybe when you’re angry at the lies, it’s because you love the truth too much to let it go.”

Jack: “That’s poetic.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s survival. We keep showing up, every day, not because we’re saints—but because we can’t stand not trying.”

Host: Her voice cracked, but she didn’t hide it. The room filled with a strange, fragile warmth, like the first light after a long night shift.

Jack: “You know, I watched Cardiac Arrest once. Mercurio’s old show. It was ugly. Real. I couldn’t finish it.”

Jeeny: “Why not?”

Jack: “Because it looked too much like my life. And I didn’t want my life reflected back at me without anesthesia.”

Jeeny: “That’s the cost of truth, Jack. It doesn’t flatter. It wounds.”

Host: The rain outside softened, the sky lightening toward dawn. The first buses began to move, their headlights gliding across the puddles like tired eyes opening to another day.

Jack: “You think patients would still trust us if they saw how messy it really is?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But maybe they’d understand us better. Maybe they’d see that we bleed too.”

Host: He nodded, slowly. The anger in him dimmed, replaced by something quieter—respect, grief, and a kind of tender resignation that only those who’ve carried too much ever truly know.

Jack: “So maybe anger isn’t the enemy.”

Jeeny: “No. Maybe it’s the conscience of those who haven’t gone numb yet.”

Host: The television finally flickered off, leaving only the hum of the hospital and the soft light of morning creeping through the blinds.

Jack stood, stretching, the crack of his shoulders echoing like a gunshot in the stillness.

Jack: “Another shift in an hour.”

Jeeny: “Another storm to walk into.”

Jack: “Yeah. But this time, no scripts.”

Host: They walked out together, passing through the long corridor, their reflections trailing in the glass—two figures made not of perfection, but of persistence.

Outside, the sky was still grey, but the light had changed. Not brighter, just more honest.

Host: And that, perhaps, was the real miracle Mercurio had written about: not the flawless doctor or the instant cure, but the simple, stubborn act of showing up again—angry, imperfect, but still human enough to care.