Adverse Events- Sample Chapter (Chapter 1)
Welcome. Below is a sample chapter from Adverse Events. This excerpt is shared for preview purposes only. © Parker Garrett. Please don’t reproduce without permission.
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Washington Post
August 22, 2036
Community Mourns Loss of Prominent D.C. Philanthropist
Miranda Bellamy
Leonard King, 58, a well-known figure in Washington business and philanthropy circles, died unexpectedly yesterday at St. Jerome’s Medical Center following what was expected to be a routine outpatient procedure. Hospital officials have not released details, but sources confirm King was under conscious sedation at the time of his death.
King, a board member of St. Jerome’s and the founder of Eastern Edge Capital, was a major donor to regional public health initiatives. Family members described the procedure as “a minor one” connected to a longstanding cardiac condition. It was performed in the hospital’s new Cardiac Innovation Wing, a facility partially funded by King’s own foundation.
In a brief statement, a hospital spokesperson expressed condolences to the King family and confirmed that an internal review had been initiated. “We are deeply saddened by the loss of Mr. King and are committed to a full investigation,” the statement read.
Leonard King is survived by his wife, Dr. Amanda Vaughn-King, and their two daughters. The family has requested privacy as they await a formal explanation from the hospital.
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November 14, 2036
The rain came in curtains, steady and whispering, against the kitchen windows.
She was up early and already dressed to go to a meeting she didn’t want to attend. God, please don’t let it be Bell, she thought. Or Legal. Or worse—Sister Katherine. Who schedules 6:30 am meetings on a Friday? Her fingers curled around a ceramic travel mug embossed with a fading “St. Jerome’s Auxiliary” seal. The tea had gone tepid. She hadn’t yet taken a sip.
Claire Redmond had spent sixteen years perfecting the art of polite invisibility at St. Jerome’s Medical Center, most recently as Director of Research Ethics and Compliance. She had weathered the post-Kennedy rebuild, when the federal government dismantled the old Ethics Review Board infrastructure and forced hospitals to reclaim local oversight. The early years had been chaos; ethics boards restarting from scratch and compliance officers being promoted faster than the systems they were supposed to monitor. Claire hadn’t volunteered to lead, but when the dust settled, she’d been the one still standing. She knew the policies because she’d helped write them. She knew the players because she’d survived them. She managed sponsor correspondence, kept audit trails pristine, and ensured protocol deviations were smothered in paperwork before anyone in legal noticed. She was, in no uncertain terms, damn good at her job. Everyone knew it. She was not the kind of person summoned out of the blue.
Unless someone wanted to make a point, the thought was bitter.
Yet at 10:25 P.M. last night, a message had dropped into her email inbox: “Please report to Room 818 at 6:30 a.m. for a private discussion.” No sender. Just the hospital's generic signature block. Maybe it’s nothing, she told herself, rubbing her eyes. Probably just some early-morning ego trip—someone in the C-suite who thinks crisis management works better before sunrise or just likes the sound of their own voice before anyone else has had coffee.
Her shoulders ached, a deep tiredness that never really left anymore. She rubbed the back of her neck, as though she could smooth the feeling away
She didn’t know what was wrong exactly, only that she’d seen the signs, and her gut was telling her something was not right. Sloppy recordkeeping. Pressure due to back-to-back surgical procedures. Accidental use of experimental devices on patients that were caught only after the fact—the two clinic nurses each claimed they were reaching for an approved stent in the cardiac cath lab, and the experimental stent was on the wrong shelf.
Claire had flagged these incidents. Both involved the same product. Both the same day. Twice. In writing. Documented. Time-stamped. If they wanted to bury it, they should’ve tried harder.
She should have been out the door ten minutes ago. Instead, she stared at her open laptop and the unfinished email to her contact at OREAI asking if the new agency could audit the hospital. She’d spoken to Susan yesterday, it was a casual, off the record chat but the conversation had left the door open for something more formal. She hesitated, her finger about to click the “Send” button. But something in her gut said: Don’t borrow trouble. She saved it as a draft instead, telling herself she’d look at it again tonight, once her head was clear and the house was quiet.
Claire glanced down at her phone again not because she needed to, but because the message still sat wrong with her. She was tired not from the early hour, but from the rhythm of a job that kept asking more than it gave.
The job offer from Briarhelm Regional was still sitting in her inbox. She was very tempted, but she hadn’t yet accepted. A smaller hospital. Less pressure. Fewer politics. Fewer fires, and maybe just a little more sleep. Some days, like this one, it was harder to pretend she hadn’t already begun to lean toward it.
She closed the laptop and stood, smoothing the front of her brown blazer. The beige blouse beneath it gathered into a soft tie at the throat. A uniform of competence she had perfected over her time at the hospital. She topped off her mug with hot water from the carafe, the scent of bergamot lifting faintly in the sterile air. The heat steadied her hands as she slipped on her jacket, crossed the room, and pulled the door shut behind her.
The corridor was hushed, its fluorescent lights too white for the hour. Her heels clicked in the stillness all the way to the elevator. The descent to the parking level felt longer than usual — a low hum in the walls, a faint vibration underfoot.
The garage was cool and still. When she neared, the sedan responded: headlights flickered once, locks disengaged, the dashboard lights glowed faintly through the windshield. Everything ready, precise, waiting. She opened the door, the cabin light blooming to life, and slid behind the wheel. The seat adjusted automatically, a gentle shift she hadn’t commanded. She tightened her grip on the travel mug, its warmth sharp against her palm. She set the travel mug in the console and fastened her belt, telling herself it was only habit, code, and timing. Nothing more.
She stared through the glass at the garage wall in front of her, as though time might reverse if she willed it. The car hadn’t moved yet, though the dashboard had long since flickered to life, the climate control humming in low like a purring cat. A pale blue light traced the contours of the center console.
“Good morning, Ms. Redmond. Destination, please?” the car asked.
“I’m going into work – St. Jerome’s Hospital, please.”
“Very good. You’re up early this morning. Current driving time will be 25-minutes given current traffic conditions. Please make yourself comfortable.” Sometimes the car unsettled her—especially at this hour, when it seemed to sense her mood, adjusting itself before she could. Her sedan pulled out of the parking garage and began the 25-minute trek to the hospital.
The autopilot adjusted the wipers in slow, even arcs. The "whomp-whomp" sound of the wipers as they swept across the windshield was somehow soothing, so she allowed herself to relax a bit, leaned back in her seat, and watched the lights reflect off the slick road as she sipped her tea.
The rain thickened and the vehicle adjusted its speed. Claire glanced down at her phone again, illuminated briefly with a calendar reminder: “6:30 – Private Discussion – Rm 818” And below it: “No additional details.”
The brake lights on the car ahead of her flared. The autopilot didn’t slow down.
“Brake,” she said calmly.
Nothing happened.
Her pulse kicked. “Engage manual override.”
A soft chime. Then: “Manual override has been disabled,” a neutral voice responded.
The car swerved suddenly around the stopped vehicle, tires skimming the shoulder, her mug toppling over into the footwell. She pressed the emergency call button on her dash. A sharp mechanical chirp, then silence. Then came that sound: a high-pitched squeal, like an old-fashioned modem failing to connect. Then silence again.
The screen blinked again: ‘Unexpected system update in progress’. The voice followed a beat later, even and unhurried. “System will restart in thirty seconds.”
She froze. A sick dread bloomed in her chest. The car had never spoken like that before.
Rain hammered the windshield now, louder than the voice in her throat. The car accelerated as it approached the roundabout at 20th and P—right where the old pharmacy used to be. The light turned yellow. Then red. The vehicle didn’t stop.
“Emergency brake!” she screamed.
Her car shot into the intersection.
The school bus came from the left. She saw its lights first, then the screaming twist of metal, then nothing.
Somewhere beneath the dash, her travel mug had cracked open on impact, leaking tea across the floor mats in a slow, spreading stain.