There are bad days, and then there are MRI days.
I've seen patients code. I've seen beds roll away mid-suture. I've seen Kip try to lead a mindfulness seminar in the middle of a Code Brown. But nothing—*nothing*—prepared me for the moment a wheelchair flew into the MRI room like it had something to prove.
Let me back up.
It started with a memo. Like most disasters.
Someone had written in bold, underlined font: "ABSOLUTELY NO METAL IN MRI ZONE. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO ENTER ROOM 2B WITH WHEELCHAIRS, OXYGEN TANKS, OR STRETCHER EQUIPMENT CONTAINING METAL FRAMING."
Naturally, no one read it.
Or rather, Kip read it and decided to test its limits in the name of "radiological field resonance efficiency."
He later claimed it was a "controlled experiment."
Here's how it actually went down.
---
Trevor and I were down the hall, restocking sanitizers when we heard a sound I can only describe as "aluminum regret."
A deep clang, followed by what I'm fairly certain was the Doppler-shifted scream of an airborne IV pole.
By the time we got to Room 2B, the hallway was in full tilt.
Kip was on the floor holding a clipboard like a riot shield.
A wheelchair was lodged in the doorway at a 45-degree angle, one wheel still spinning like it had beef with gravity.
Jude was standing outside the room with his hands on his head, muttering, "This is why I drink decaf. This is why I don't tell my mother where I work."
"WHAT HAPPENED?!" I shouted.
"MAGNETS!" Kip yelled, as if that explained everything.
Trevor pointed. "Oxygen tank's stuck to the machine. That's not coming off unless Thor himself unclenches it."
---
We cleared the hallway.
The MRI tech was furious. Security was summoned but mostly confused. Everett arrived exactly twelve seconds after the incident, holding a non-magnetic broom and a fire extinguisher, like he'd sensed a disturbance in the hospital's magnetic field.
He took one look at the scene and asked, "Did Kip read again?"
"Yes," I said.
"Figures."
While the rest of the staff worked to shut down the machine and extract the embedded tank with a team of biomedical staff and what I can only describe as a crowbar made of regret, Everett pulled Kip aside.
I couldn't hear what was said.
But whatever it was, Kip went very still.
He nodded.
Then he walked away.
Quietly.
Which, for Kip, is borderline terrifying.
---
Cleanup was slow.
One of the ceiling panels had cracked from the recoil. A stretcher had been magnetically recruited halfway through a corridor and now leaned sideways in defiance of known physics. The floor was littered with shattered plastic, scattered chart notes, and a single orange traffic cone no one remembered placing there.
Trevor picked it up. "Do you think this was a warning?"
Jude took a photo and texted it to our group chat with the caption: **"New mascot: Sir Magnetron, Defender of Protocol."**
---
After the dust settled, I found Everett outside by the loading dock, where he occasionally went to breathe, think, or—based on rumors—quietly telepath with pigeons.
I handed him a soda.
"Thanks," he said, accepting it without looking at me.
"Do you think he'll get fired?" I asked.
"Kip?" Everett shook his head. "No. He'll write a report. Turn it into a pitch. Somehow get invited to a seminar."
I laughed, then stopped. "But seriously—he could've hurt someone."
"I know," Everett said. "But he didn't."
"That's luck."
"No," Everett replied. "That's why we watch each other's blind spots."
---
I was still processing that when Camila's name popped up on my rounding list. Just a routine vitals check, but still—it gave me something to center on.
She was drawing again. This time, it was a cartoon Kip being dragged by a magnetic field like a bad date.
"You heard," I said.
"It's on the intercom," she replied. "Even the cancer cells are laughing."
I chuckled and handed her the juice cup she liked.
"You good?" she asked, not looking up.
"Yeah," I said. "Just thinking about blind spots."
"You've got a good team," she said. "Even the weird ones."
"Especially the weird ones," I replied.
---
That night, as I walked back to the locker room, I passed the closed door to the MRI wing.
A new sign had been posted.
It read:
**"NO METAL. NO EXCEPTIONS. NO KIP."**
And beneath it, in sharpie:
**"Seriously, Kip."**
---
Hospitals are loud in strange ways.
But sometimes, it takes a magnetic disaster to remind you just how much force is hiding in the things we think are under control.
And just how fast everything can fly when someone forgets where the pull comes from.