"It's okay, honey," she tells Sam. "Can you tell me what happened?" the nurse asks as she pulls on latex gloves so fast they snap with a gunshot crack.
"I don't know," I stammer. "She just—she woke up and started screaming. Her stomach, she says it hurts, and then she—"
"It's okay, I've got it," the nurse says, and she's already pressing her stethoscope to Sam's gut, palpating gently as Sam whimpers and recoils. "Where's your pain, honey? Show me."
"Stomach," Sam gasps, her hands fluttering like dying birds over her abdomen. "Hurts so bad—feels like it's tearing—" Her voice dissolves into another retch, and the nurse barely gets the basin in place before more vomit comes.
I back away, stumbling over the magazine on the floor, because now there are more people flooding the room: another nurse, a tech with a rolling cart, and finally, Dr. Wilcott herself, her white coat fluttering like a cape behind her.
She looks at me briefly, nodding, but her focus is all on Sam.
"What's the status?" she demands, snapping on gloves.
"Acute abdominal pain, active vomiting, tachycardic. Vitals are spiking—heart rate 142, temp 39.3, BP trending down."
Dr. Wilcott leans in, peering into Sam's eyes with a little light, then sweeping her hands over Sam's belly. "Where does it hurt most?"
Sam can barely reply, her teeth chattering through the agony.
"Everywhere. Right here—" She points below her ribs, then cramps into a ball. Sweat beads on her entire face, and she looks grayish, lips tinged slightly blue.
Dr. Wilcott's face hardens. "We need pain control now." She looks up. "Hang one liter of fluids, start with IV pain control—low dose. Draw labs for CBC, CMP, CRP, and lactate. Prep for CT."
"CT with contrast?" the nurse asks.
"Yes. Stat."
People move fast after that. Too fast. They're stripping the soiled gown, replacing sheets, starting another IV line.
I cling to the wall, watching as the nurses swarm around Sam, one inserting a new line, another stripping off her soiled gown and wrapping her in fresh blankets.
All the while, Sam is moaning, eyes rolling, sobbing incoherently. I want to help but know I'll only be in the way. I feel my hands clench so hard my nails dig crescents into my palms.
I look at Dr. Wilcott, desperate, voice barely above a whisper: "What's happening to her? I thought she was getting better, you said—"
"It's likely bowel inflammation flaring again from the typhlitis," she says carefully. "but we need imaging to rule out perforation or obstruction. The next hour is critical, Zach. I promise, we're doing everything we can."
Sam is crying out, pleading with every breath, "Please, please, it hurts, I can't—"
The nurse pushes the pain meds through her IV, and Sam sags, her cries fading to whimpers, but her eyes are still wild,searching for me. I inch closer, close enough to touch her ankle beneath the blanket. Her leg is trembling.
They wheel her bed toward the door, prepping to take her to imaging. I hover uselessly, not sure if I'm supposed to go with them or get out of the way. Sam's face is even paler now, lips drained of every ounce of color, but her fingers—God, those small trembling fingers—reach for mine.
And I grab on instantly. I hold her like she's the only solid thing in the room.
I squeeze gently, terrified I might break her if I'm too rough.
One of the nurses—the one with the soft voice and warm eyes—looks at me and shakes her head a little.
"You should stay here for now and wait. It might take a while."
My chest caves in on itself.
"Is she going to be okay?" I whisper. It comes out strangled. Like I'm asking the air, the walls, anyone who might have an answer.
"If we move fast, yes," the nurse replies. She's calm, but not calm enough to settle anything inside me.
I swallow hard. My throat burns.
