Sang Sorenson. 18 years old. Doctor. Academy Agent.
Sang comes from an abusive family, but managed to escape from their clutches at 11 years old. The academy welcomed her with open arms, teaching her how to protect herself but also how to protect ot...
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I hate seeing Sang in this much pain. It's horrendous. I update the group, starting a group chat, before calling Phil.
Outgoing call to Phil Roberts
Phil: Sean. What's wrong?
Sean: I need someone to read over Sang's case. Since the second surgery, the pain relief isn't helping at all.
Phil: Oh no. How come? If I knew that I could fix it. Fucking hell. I rub at my eyes, before sighing.
Sean: I don't know. Which is exactly why I need another set of eyes. She's waking up in pain, fatigued, and has had at least two breakdowns today when the pain gets too much. She can't sleep because of the pain and can't do anything other than lie there due to exhaustion. She's struggling.
Phil: I'll organise a meeting now. We can present it to the hospital doctors and let them try and help. How is she otherwise?
Sean: Good. She's still alert and helping the team when she can—which is a blessing and a curse. I think it's a good thing she has us though, because she's usually alone now. The presents and things have helped too.
Phil: Good. She truly is loved by many.
Sean: Yeah. Let me know a time and place and I'll be there. As soon as possible though, because she had to be sedated tonight to get to sleep.
"What's happening?" Raven asks, only having heard my end of the conversation.
"We're going to get some extra eyes on her case," I explain. "See if anyone has ideas, and we can set up a more aggressive treatment plan. She needs more support than I'm giving her."
"Sounds good," Gabe says, nodding.
"Before I go, are you both okay? I know Sang wanted to touch base, but I'm here too," I reply.
"We're good," Gabe says. "Promise."
"Need a Xanax?" I offer, but he shakes his head. That's good, he's clearly doing better since his conversation with Sang.
"I'd love a fucking Xanax," Raven tells me, and it's hard to keep my face straight. "It might shut my brain off. Can you ask my psychiatrist?"
"I'll call her now," I mutter. I hope she says no. I don't think he needs a Xanax. The conversation was quick, but she has already prescribed a course of Xanax, for him to take as needed. This must mean he's struggling worse than we realised, and his PTSD might be having a flare up.
Fucking hell, I'm a shit team mate.
I'm an even worse team doctor.
"Yes, I'll get one for you," I say, reassuringly. "I'll be a few hours, so call Owen or Axel if needed, okay?"
