Talia is a nurse, too, and we both work three twelve-hour shifts a week.
“We do,” I say. “We’re both off on Sundays, and we catch up in between shifts.”
“Do you ever get to have fun? Go out? Go on dates?” Mel asks. “I feel like you never talk about dating anyone.”
“I do sometimes, but nothing serious. And my sister is an overprotective stalker. She never thinks anyone is good enough for me. As such, I never bring anyone home for any serious scrutiny.”
“Doesshedate?”
“She also prefers to keep it casual,” I answer. “She’s into sex but not commitment.”
“Why’s she against you having someone, though?”
“I don’t think it’s that,” I say. “I don’t know.”
Maureen takes a call at the desk, listens for a few seconds, then straightens, her tone shifting. “We have an incoming emergency. Patient is a white male in his mid-twenties. He was found beaten in a parking garage near Windy City Arena. Witness says two men ran from the scene, one carrying what looked like a baseball bat.”
Mel and I lock eyes. The casual chatter evaporates.
“Let’s move,” I say, already grabbing gloves.
We’re outside when the ambulance screeches into the entrance, siren still wailing. The doors slam open, paramedics shouting vitals over the noise.
“Twenty-five-year-old male, multiple contusions, probable nasal fracture, head trauma, and possible broken ribs,” one calls as we grab the gurney.
His voice competes with the chaos around us—the hydraulic hiss of the doors, the squeal of wheels on tile, the steady beep of the monitor.
“BP’s dropping, ninety over fifty!” someone yells.
“Let’s get him inside!” I bark, pushing the gurney through the automatic doors.
The guy on the stretcher is massive, built like a linebacker, but his face is barely recognizable. I can’t imagine how a guy this big could get jumped this badly.
Blood streaks his hairline, eyes swollen shut, nose bent and bleeding. There’s a jagged cut on his forehead and road rash down one cheek.
“Jesus,” Mel mutters. “He looks like he went through a damn windshield.”
“Or a couple of bats,” I mutter, checking his pulse. “Strong but thready. Let’s get an IV started.”
The doctor joins us, and we get to work.
Mel moves fast, cleaning the lacerations to see if he needs stitches while I check for signs of concussion or brain injury. His pupils react to light. Good. He follows my finger sluggishly.
“No obvious sign of head trauma or concussion,” I announce.
I lean close. “Can you hear me, sir? You’re at Chicago General. You were attacked. Can you tell me your name?”
“Yes, I…uh I,” he rasps, voice gravelly, but at least it’s there.
“Patient’s lucid and responsive,” I confirm, glancing up at the doctor.
The doc presses along his arms, chest, and abdomen methodically. “Anything hurt?”
The guy barely reacts until the doctor hits his ribs. Then he flinches, jaw tightening, a sharp breath through his nose, but no sound.
Stoic as hell.
“I think you’ve got a broken rib or two,” the doctor says. “But everything else seems intact. We can get a few X-rays to confirm, but let’s get that nose reset, okay? I can do a closed reduction. Might hurt, but it will be fast. You down, sir?”
