Transatlantic

Dr. Lazaro “Laz” Santa Cruz drummed his fingers against the armrest of his first-class seat, staring out the small oval window as the plane cruised somewhere over the Atlantic. There were clouds above him, clouds beneath him, and clouds around him. Is this how it felt like to be Superman? Or an angel? He was both of those things to the patients and staff of Edenbrook, after all. He dismissed the thought with a shake of his head. The hum of the engines filled the cabin, steady and low, almost like white noise. He wasn’t afraid of flying—he’d done it plenty of times for medical conferences before, bouncing between San Diego, Miami, New York, and, one year, Honolulu. But this was different. 

France. 

Edenbrook had footed part of the bill, a generous gesture considering it wasn’t exactly in their budget to send him overseas. “A networking opportunity,” they’d called it, though Laz suspected it was also a way to get him out of the hospital for a few days before he burned out entirely. The other half of that very generous contribution was from Panacea Labs. A bribe, if you will. Dr. Santa Cruz hated being in bed with big pharma. To him, it was just a means of lining the pockets of the rich and greedy. It wasn't really saving a life. They’d prescribe medication to a patient and then that medication would have side effects. To counter the side effects of said medication, they would prescribe the patient with another medication. And then that medication would have side effects of its own. The patient would have to take more medicine to combat the effects of that medication. That's why big pharma was getting richer and richer. That's why Dr. Santa Cruz hated big pharma. To him, big pharma was a gross violator of the Hippocratic Oath. First, do no harm. These medications and their side effects were the opposite of that.

He sighed and reached for the file folder in the seat pocket in front of him. Paper, not digital. He preferred it that way when reviewing cases, even if it made him a dinosaur among his younger colleagues. He flipped it open, scanning a few notes on a particularly tricky cardiothoracic surgery he had performed last month, wondering if it would be worth presenting at the conference. 

“Doctor?” 

Laz looked up to find a flight attendant, impeccably dressed in navy and gold, offering him a warm smile. 

“Would you like anything to drink?” she asked. 

“Just water, please,” he said with his usual charming smile. “Thank you.”

She nodded and moved on, and Laz returned his focus to the file. But his attention drifted, carried away by the quiet conversations around him—the hushed murmurs of business travelers, the occasional clink of a glass, the rustle of blankets as passengers settled in for the long haul. 

Across the aisle, a man was arguing in hushed tones with someone on a video call. “I told you, I’ll be back by Thursday,” he whispered, running a hand through his hair. “No, it’s not like that, baby, come on—” 

Laz tuned him out. He glanced at his watch. Seven more hours to Paris. 

The seat next to him was empty, which was a blessing. He usually didn’t mind small talk, but after the nonstop chaos of Edenbrook, he welcomed the silence. 

That was, until the seat’s rightful occupant arrived. 

A woman, breathless from what was likely a last-minute boarding, sank into the seat with an apologetic smile. “Sorry—sorry,” she said to no one in particular, tucking a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear as she fastened her seatbelt. 

Laz barely spared her a glance at first, but when she settled in, something tugged at his memory. He turned slightly, studying her face. 

She caught him looking. “Do I know you?” she asked, tilting her head. 

“Lazaro Santa Cruz,” he said, extending a hand. “Edenbrook.” 

Her eyes widened in recognition. “Dr. Santa Cruz! Of course—I’m Dr. Noelle Bisset.” She shook his hand, her grip firm. “We were on the same panel at the Miami conference last year. You spoke about emergency cardiac interventions.” 

Laz nodded. “Right. You’re in neurology?” 

“Neurosurgery,” she corrected with a grin. “Paris General.” 

“Ah.” He gestured toward the window. “Heading home, then?” 

She leaned back in her seat. “More or less. I’m speaking at the conference, too.” 

Their conversation drifted easily from there—shared experiences, mutual colleagues, medical cases that had stuck with them. Time passed faster than Laz expected. They had a meal, trading critiques of airline food (edible, barely), and when the lights dimmed for the overnight portion of the flight, Noelle tucked a travel pillow behind her head and sighed. 

“Do you ever get tired of it?” she asked. 

He glanced at her. “Of what?” 

“The conferences, the travel, the constant need to prove yourself.” 

Laz considered that. “I don’t think it’s about proving myself,” he said finally. “It’s about the work. About making sure we’re always doing better than the day before.” 

Noelle hummed thoughtfully. “I used to think that way, too.” 

“And now?” 

She exhaled. “Now, I wonder if I should slow down before I forget how.” 

Laz didn’t answer right away. He knew the feeling all too well. 

“Maybe that’s why they sent me to Paris,” he admitted. “To force me to slow down.” 

Noelle smiled. “Then maybe this trip will do us both some good.” 

The cabin lights flickered as the plane hit a patch of turbulence. Noelle tensed, gripping the armrest. 

Laz chuckled. “Don’t tell me a neurosurgeon is afraid of turbulence.” 

She shot him a glare, but there was humor in her eyes. “I prefer my feet on solid ground.” 

He smirked but said nothing, letting the silence settle between them. Eventually, she closed her eyes, and he returned to his case notes. 

Hours later, as the captain announced their descent into Charles de Gaulle, Noelle stirred. She blinked sleepily at Laz. 

“Welcome to France, Dr. Santa Cruz,” she murmured. 

Laz glanced out the window as the first hints of morning light broke over the horizon. Maybe this trip wouldn’t be so bad after all.