Bisi Egbe left the main gallery of the museum and entered the smaller room where the silent auction had been set up. She checked the app that they were using for the auction. She’d bid on a tasting menu for two at a trendy new restaurant in DC, a lithograph by an artist who was a fellow Nigerian, and a weekend get-away for two at some resort in Virginia. The only item she actually wanted to win was the lithograph, and, seeing that she’d been outbid by someone, Bisi drifted over to give it another look. She needed to decide how much she liked it and how high she was willing to bid. 

Bisi studied the litho, a simplified, colorful abstract profile of a woman’s head on a black and white ideographic background inspired by Nsibidi— a system of symbolic communication used by Nigerians for almost two millennia. Nsibidi, being pictographic, had once allowed Nigerians to transcend the spoken language differences in its diverse population. As a Nigerian woman living in the Southern US, Bisi often found herself trying to negotiate wide cultural gaps, and so an image of an African woman awash in mysterious symbolism appealed to her on a visceral level. She decided she wanted the lithograph very much indeed. She typed a significantly higher bid than the last into her phone, and hit enter. Then she took a photo of the artist’s name so that if the piece slipped through her fingers tonight, she could track down some of his other work. 

Short of throwing herself in front of the print and shielding it bodily from other interested parties, which she was sure was frowned upon, Bisi couldn’t do much more to secure a victory. She turned to head back into the main gallery where she could get herself a fresh drink and furtively check the auction on her phone while she browsed the museum’s permanent collection. Before she could take more than two steps, however, a small dark-haired woman in a dark suit stepped into her path purposefully.

Stopping in her tracks, Bisi looked down, surprised. 

The woman looked up at her and gave her a taut, perfunctory smile, but it was enough to make Bisi’s heart skip a beat. Woo! Beautiful. Big golden brown eyes under strong brows, a freckled nose, soft lips. “Good evening,” she said briskly but politely, “Are you Dr. Bisi Egbe?”

Bisi’s eyebrows drew together. She really didn’t know many people in DC, and she definitely didn’t know this particular woman. She’d have remembered meeting her. “I… am? What can I do for you?”

“You’re a cardiologist? At Johns Hopkins?” the woman persisted.

Bisi shook her head. “No, a cardiothoracic surgeon,” she corrected with a smile. "Believe it or not, as skillsets go, they are more different than you'd think."

“But you’d know a heart attack if you saw one?”

Uh-oh. “Unfortunately, I have seen one, ewa. With the hood up. Yes, I think it’s fair to say that I would likely recognize a cardiac emergency. Do you need a doctor?”

The woman paused as if listening to the room, and then Bisi realized that she was wearing some type of ear piece on a clear, coiled cord that emerged from her collar and wrapped around her ear. That looked like such a DC thing. Bisi abruptly longed for the simplicity of Baltimore— just the occasional gunshot in the distance or the wail of sirens, no dark suits with earpieces. After a few seconds, the woman spoke again. “I’m so sorry. I was getting an update. I apologize for interrupting your evening. My name is Marisol Ortiz, please call me Marisol. I’m the Event Coordinator.” Marisol pulled her badge, which was on a tether, away from her chest and showed it to Bisi, who glanced at it briefly. “Unfortunately, one of our other… guests… is having some medical difficulty. I’m afraid I can’t say very much about it, but if you would be willing to come with me and perhaps assess his condition, I would be very grateful.”

“Yes, ewa, I will gladly help. One of the guests, you say? I feel as if I can hear the capital G,” said Bisi knowingly.

Marisol grimaced slightly. “Could you? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like the snooty concierge in every movie ever,” said Marisol with disarming candor. "You’re our guest as much as this man is, and here we are bothering you. I’m honestly very sorry we had to interrupt your evening, but, yes, this man is a high-profile guest, and so I need to be discreet. I’m more stressed than impressed by this situation, I assure you. I very much appreciate you taking the time. If you could come this way with me?” She gestured with her hand and started walking.

Marisol was at least eight inches shorter than Bisi, but she moved fast. Bisi lengthened her strides to keep up, warning her, “I can’t really make a diagnosis with only a basic examination, just so you know, ewa. I can't even take this person's blood pressure, which is important data at times like these. I can only tell you whether it looks more like he’ll need an ambulance, an AED, or, hopefully, a less dramatic course of treatment. I assume there is an AED here at the museum, if needed?”

“There is, yes, I’ve already sent for it, but for now, the gentleman is conscious and talking. He's just pale and sweaty and having some difficulty breathing. If you could help us with him until his team decides on their next steps, that’s really all we need. I would just feel better if we had a doctor nearby.”

“I see. Well, lead the way.” Internally, Bisi grimaced. People with teams did not make the best patients in her experience. Bisi followed Marisol Ortiz through an-easily overlooked door in the wall of the smaller gallery with the silent auction, and found herself in the behind-the-scenes area of the museum. They made a couple of turns and went up a flight of stairs, then made a couple more turns. Bisi realized that if this woman had murderous black widow tendencies, Bisi would die back here and they’d never find her remains, because there was no way she’d ever get back to the main gallery on her own, short of abseiling down the side of the building. As they walked, occasionally, Marisol appeared to be taking in information from her earpiece and she would respond in cryptic, periodic sentences via her shirt cuff, just like in the movies. Bisi had her doubts about whether any of this cloak-and-dagger stuff was necessary, or even real, but she had to admit that it was more interesting than haunting the silent auction room or making small talk with the other guests at the gala. 

Finally, Marisol opened a door flanked by two large men who appeared to be bodyguards. Marisol only nodded at them and ushered Bisi into what felt like a well-appointed green room of some kind. Inside, perched on the edge of a couch, with two hovering hipsters orbiting him, was none other than Halston Hollis, arguably America’s most famous and sought-after Omega. Oh. If anything, Marisol Ortiz had downplayed how high-profile the guest was. All of the secrecy suddenly made sense. Bisi snapped her mouth, which had popped open, closed again, and then gave herself a little shake, refocusing on why she was there. 

Marisol cleared her throat, and both assistants looked up, panic shining in their faces. Halston Hollis, however, continued to stare at the carpet in front of him. She tried again. “Mr. Hollis, this Dr. Bisi Egbe. She is one of our other guests, and she is a cardio-thoracic surgeon at Johns Hopkins. She was kind enough to offer her assistance. Would you allow her to examine you?”

Rather than falling on his knees in gratitude, Halston Hollis smothered a curse and looked up at Bisi with patent irritation, saying in the staccato speech of the short-of-breath, “I appreciate it, but if someone would please just get Braxton in here—”

Patiently, respectfully, Marisol responded, “We are trying to find him, Mr. Hollis, but until we can, I’ve brought Dr. Egbe to be sure that your condition isn’t urgent.”

“Fuck my condition,” Hollis snapped. “My condition is always urgent. That’s just my life. This is the first of three events I have to do tonight. I’m fine. This is nothing. You— you’re not allowed to tell anyone about this, are you,” he demanded, half-looking at Bisi. “I know she’s signed an NDA, but what about you?”

To her surprise, Bisi felt the strange pressure in her eyes that preceded a shift to gold. Not because the cosseted little man on the couch was speaking to her rudely, but because he had cursed at Marisol. To be honest, most of her patients were too sick or scared to give her much trouble, even the ‘high-profile’ patients. Bisi had certainly treated some well-known people in the past, it was part of working at any prestigious medical center. Generally, Bisi’s celebrity patients had been more famous in the business world or the political world than in the Arts. Accordingly, they were often known for being antagonistic and entitled…but even the most entitled of power-players had the good sense not to bite the hand that had a realistic chance of holding their exposed heart in the near future.

Crisply, using the starchy, authoritative voice she had cultivated especially for working with difficult patients back during her ER rotation, Bisi said, “Mr. Hollis, I am both legally and ethically bound not to share details of any of my patients’ conditions. I am not, however, going to treat you against your will. Your color is bad, you are diaphoretic, your breathing is labored…if I were you, I would want a doctor to check me over. If you would rather have Braxton do that for you, I can go, but if I do, I’ll be taking Ms. Ortiz with me— she’s the only know who knows the way out of this labyrinth. I can see that you are not feeling well, and that might explain your manners, but I also prefer not to leave her here to be sworn at when she is doing her best to assist you. She did manage to find you a heart expert in record time.”

Halston Hollis looked up at Bisi assessingly and then, just as she hoped he might, he reversed course. “No, you’re right. She didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said directly to Marisol, who smiled blandly back. Oh, she’s annoyed at you, thought Bisi, amused. It doesn’t come naturally to her to hold her tongue, I don’t think. “I’m just freaking out right now. I’m sorry. Look, I’m ninety-nine percent sure this is a panic attack, but…ok, hold on. Could we have the room?” he said, looking around. Obediently, both assistants headed for the door, and Marisol turned to go, too.

“No, if you don’t mind, I’d feel more comfortable if one other person stayed while I examine you, you may choose who,” said Bisi. 

“Her, then,” Hollis said, gesturing at Marisol before going back to looking at his feet, “She can stay. The other two are just making me more nervous. You signed an NDA, right?” said Hollis, sounding more exhausted than angry now. 

A muscle jumped in Marisol’s jaw, but she nodded and answered in the affirmative, maintaining her neutral expression. 

“Ok, then,” said Hollis and then sat up and looked at Bisi. “What do you want me to do?”