“He was bleedin’ a lot,” someone says.
“Does he have any medical conditions?” I ask. “Allergies? Medications? Blood thinners?”
The men stare at me like I’m speaking another language. No one answers.
“Anybody know?” I press for more information.
Silence. The injured man’s eyes drift shut.
“Hey,” I say, touching his shoulder. “Stay with me. What’s your name?”
His lips move.
I lean in.
“Duke,” he whispers.
“Duke,” I repeat. “Okay. Duke, I need you to tell me if you have any allergies.”
His eyes flutter. “Penicillin,” he breathes.
Good. Something. “Any medications?”
He shakes his head faintly. “Any conditions?”
“None.” His head droops.
I check his pupils as best I can without a light. I press lightly around the wound, feeling the heat, assessing swelling. I look for an exit wound along his back or abdomen.
Nothing obvious.
The bullet might still be inside. My stomach twists.
A man returns with a plastic bin—like a first aid kit, but larger. Another brings a grocery bag with bottles clinking inside. The bag they bring from my car wasn’t my back up medical kit, but my spare change of scrubs bag. It has toiletries for if I get held over for an additional shift and need to shower at the hospital. My pen light, stethoscope, pulse oximeter, and other things are in the other bag still in my car.
“This bag doesn’t have my medical supplies. It’s useless.” I inform the room. “What’s in the tub?” They dump it onto the floor beside me: gloves, gauze, tape, rubbing alcohol, peroxide, a cheap suture kit still in packaging, a flashlight, a bottle of ibuprofen, and—God help me—a bottle of whiskey.
“Antibiotics?” I ask.
The president’s mouth tightens. “None.”
“Then he’s at risk for infection,” I explain.
He leans against the doorframe like he’s bored. “Then don’t let him get infected.”
I want to scream. Instead, I breathe. In. Out. Think smart. “You have a thermometer?” I ask.
A man shrugs. “No.”
“Blood pressure cuff?”
“No.”
“Pulse ox?”
Blank stares. Of course.
Fine. I improvise.
