Medical Center.

Front Entrance.

A car came barreling straight through the doors.

"Hands up!"

Armed security guards rushed over in an instant.

Just a few days ago, there'd been a shooting here, so the guards were on high alert, reacting lightning-fast.

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot! I'm just delivering pizza! I've been stabbed! I'm dying! I need help!"

A panicked man's voice screamed from inside the car.

Adam was helping Joe hobble in when he overheard this. He glanced at Joe.

"Go on, I'm fine," Joe said.

Joe had been running a bar across from the hospital for over a decade. Even if he didn't know much about medicine, he'd picked up plenty over the years just from listening to the medical staff shoot the breeze every day. He understood how the hospital worked and what the doctors were thinking.

He'd walked over here on his own, but this pizza guy—yelling about being stabbed and on death's door—was clearly about to jump the line for surgery. His case was obviously more urgent.

"Mary!" Adam called out to a nurse.

"Hey, Joe."

"Hey, Mary."

Nurse Mary came over right away, taking charge of Joe with a familiar greeting. She was clearly a regular at his bar too.

"Where'd you get stabbed?"

Adam approached the car, looking at the young pizza delivery guy in the driver's seat. He didn't see any signs of heavy bleeding from a stab wound, so he asked.

"My side! My side!"

The pizza guy shouted, a mix of terror and fury in his voice. "I was just delivering pizza, and they stabbed me! I'm dying!"

A nurse rolled a gurney over by then.

"Relax! I'm a doctor! I'm here to help!" Adam said, trying to calm him down. "Listen, I need to lift you out of there first so we can treat you. Don't struggle—it could make the wound worse. Got it?"

"Got it," the pizza guy yelped.

Adam reached in, carefully pulled him out of the driver's seat, and laid him on the gurney.

"We've booked Operating Room 5. Should we prep for a peritoneal lavage?" an experienced nurse asked, following standard procedure.

"No, cancel the OR!"

Adam lifted the guy's shirt where he'd pointed to his right side and shook his head. "Just grab some antiseptic and a Band-Aid."

"What's wrong?!"

The pizza guy, still freaking out, saw Adam and the nurse freeze and roared, "Why aren't you saving me?!"

The nurse looked totally baffled too.

"Head hurt?" Adam asked.

"No."

"Chest pain?"

"No!"

"Neck pain?"

"No! What are you guys doing?!"

"Anywhere else hurt?"

"I don't know!"

"…It's just a scratch," Adam pointed out.

"A scratch?"

The pizza guy blinked, sat up, and looked down. Sure enough, there was a long red mark—but not a drop of blood.

Everyone stared at him, speechless.

He squirmed, embarrassed, then raised his hand like he was swearing an oath. "It was a really, really big knife!"

"I believe you!" Adam nodded.

Delivering pizza in New York—especially at night—you'd think this guy had seen it all. Pocket knives probably popped up every other day. But this kid had freaked out so bad he'd floored it all the way here, crashing through the entrance without even braking, screaming that he was dying.

If it wasn't a huge knife, that'd be the real shocker. It might not have been a 50-meter machete, but it was probably close…

Or, maybe this guy was just a total coward. First time getting stabbed, and even a tiny dagger morphed into a 50-meter blade in his mind. Maybe he'd bolted 49.999 meters before that "massive" knife barely grazed him.

Either way, this guy was a champ—outshining Glenn, the pizza boy from The Walking Dead who only lasted six seasons.

"I'm fine!"

Now fully calm, the pizza guy started patting himself down, overjoyed.

"Not necessarily. Got insurance?" Adam asked, nodding toward the car that'd smashed through the entrance.

"No!!!"

The pizza guy followed Adam's gaze, saw the wreckage, and let out a squeal like a pig at slaughter.

Looking at him now, Adam knew something definitely hurt.

Leaving this clown to the nurse, Adam turned back to Joe.

"Where's it bothering you?" he asked.

"Nowhere," Joe said, hesitating. "I just passed out for a sec earlier. Maybe low blood sugar?"

"Come on," Adam urged. "I know you hate coming here, but since you're already in the door, you've gotta tell me what's up so we can fix it."

"Treatment here's too damn expensive," Joe grumbled. "A couple tests, and I'm out months of work! It's highway robbery!"

"But you've got insurance, right…?" Adam started, then stopped, wide-eyed. "Don't tell me you don't have insurance?"

"I run my own bar—a small gig. Where am I supposed to get money for insurance?" Joe said with a self-deprecating laugh. "Besides, I'm healthy as a horse. No aches, no pains all these years. Shelling out cash every year for something I don't use? That's a waste!"

"You're making bank off us medical folks every day, and we're keeping your bar buzzing every night. And you're telling me you won't even throw us a little business?" Adam teased. "Or what, you just ask a doctor at the bar about any little problem and skip the clinic bill?"

"I buy them drinks too," Joe said sheepishly.

Adam couldn't help but laugh.

Of course!

Live by the mountain, eat from the mountain; live by the sea, eat from the sea. Joe lived by the hospital, rubbing elbows with doctors and nurses daily, saving himself clinic fees.

Smart guy.

If he didn't have that perk, Adam wouldn't believe for a second that Joe could skip insurance for over a decade so confidently. Even without big illnesses, little stuff pops up, right? Without insurance, you're screwed—can't afford a thing.

Sure, a doctor hanging out at the bar might check you out for free, but you're still on the hook for meds. And drugs in the U.S.? Pricey.

Hospital meds, though? That's a whole other universe. Take a basic Tylenol pill: eight cents at a pharmacy, but $15 a pop in here.

That's a 187.5-times markup.

One example tells the whole story!

That's why Joe avoided this place like the plague.

And it wasn't just Joe. Back when Joey was between acting gigs and his insurance lapsed, he got a hernia. Even in agony, he held off until he landed a job to renew his coverage before coming in.

No insurance safety net? You don't dare get sick. One visit could bankrupt you.

A real-life tragedy: alive, but broke.

Adam's face grew serious.

Because if Joe knew the system this well and still showed up, it meant he knew something was wrong. He wouldn't be here unless he had no choice.

With that in mind, Adam started a thorough check.

"Call Dr. Shephard," he told the nurse.

"Dr. Shephard?" Joe flinched. "Is it bad?"

He knew the name—Dr. Shephard, head of neurosurgery at the medical center. How could he not?

"We'll only know once Dr. Shephard takes a look," Adam said, reassuring him. "For now, just lie back and rest."

Joe's face went pale.

He'd heard all the stories about Adam—knew he wasn't just some rookie intern. But that's exactly why this hit harder.

Right now, he wished Adam was just a regular newbie—or even a slacker like Alex, who clocked in at the bar every night. Then maybe this could be a mistake.

But with Adam? It felt like a death sentence.