Thrum

THRUM is a humane, wry hospital novel about competence, kindness, and the ordinary holiness of continuing. In a Belfast hospital that never truly sleeps, four clinicians learn the hard arithmetic of mercy. Ailbhe keeps her father alive on soup and stubbornness while holding strangers steady through the night. Faye runs a ward like a quiet cathedral—warm blankets, sharp truths, zero nonsense. Ronan turns a Family Room into a harbour where bad news can land without breaking. Jamie believes in diagrams, second chances, and writing the notes that will matter at 4 a.m. When a mass-casualty drill becomes real, the team must decide what to protect and what to change. Foxes sketched on a whiteboard, a "COMMUNITY" biscuit tin, a battery checked because someone remembered—small acts become a culture that keeps people alive. Between crash calls and quiet dawn rounds, they learn that resilience isn't a speech; it's ten seconds of silence, a warm hand, and the courage to say a name. What you'll love Ensemble warmth & wit: banter that lifts without undercutting the stakes. Authentic clinical texture: procedures by consequence—not jargon dumps. Emotional precision: grief scenes that respect readers; hope earned, never cheap. Motif payoffs: fox / battery / biscuits / PROMISES thread from running jokes to closing grace notes. Place as character: rain-polished streets, night buses, the Lagan, and a ward that feels lived-in. For readers of Adam Kay (This Is Going to Hurt), Atul Gawande's humane essays, the ensemble quiet of Sally Rooney (minus romance-forward focus), and TV like ER or This Is Going to Hurt—but softer at the edges and kinder at the core. Themes Care as craft. Culture built from tiny choices. How teams carry the heaviest hours. How families love imperfectly—and keep showing up. The difference between doing everything and doing the right things well. Content notes Medical emergencies, on-page death (non-graphic), grief counselling, mild profanity, non-graphic surgical detail. Hopeful arc; no sensational trauma. Quotes inside the book Small on purpose, she thought. We can live there. "Notes first. Joy after." Why it stands out THRUM doesn't chase heroics; it honours the ordinary. The book's spine is the work itself: crash-room choreography, Family Room truth-telling, tea that arrives at the exact second it's needed. By the last pages, jokes become rituals, rituals become promises, and promises become culture—one that keeps patients, and the people who care for them, intact. Perfect for Readers who want to feel better about people after the last chapter. Book clubs (guided questions arise naturally: what do we protect, what do we change?). Anyone who's ever waited in a corridor and needed someone to name the next kind thing. Belfast at night. A ward at full throttle. Four clinicians with enough skill to save lives—and enough heart to stay human. If you love novels where the softest acts make the strongest weather, THRUM belongs on your shelf.