“I’m a grown man, so no one needs to worry about me now,” I tell her.
“Everyone needs someone to worry about them,” she retorts.
I inhale sharply and reach over the counter for the phone. “You said, 555-02—”
“53,” she repeats.
The phone rings a couple of times before a croaky voice answers. “Who in the world is calling at this time of night?”
“Uh, yes, hi, ma’am. This is Austin Trace, an RN down at Blytheville Medical.”
“Oh, dear God, is everything okay? Is it my father, Harris? Did he fall again?”
“No, no, ma’am. I have Candace down here. She’s okay, but she has a bit of a contusion I need to treat on her arm, and I can’t do so without your permission.”
“That’s impossible,” she says, sounded exhaustedly confused. “Candace is sleeping in her bedroom next door.”
“I hate to be the messenger, but The Square was a bit more exciting than her bed tonight, ma’am.”
“Is she okay?”
“She’ll be just fine, but I need your permission to treat her.”
“Yes, yes, of course, I’ll be right down, but you go ahead and start working on her.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I’ll see you shortly.”
Candace covers her face with her uninjured hand. “I’m dead.”
“Maybe, but we all live and learn, kid. Trust me.” I take her to the triage area and get her seated on the bed. “Let’s take a look.” She pulls up her sleeve and exposes an injury far worse than I expected to see. There’s exposed tissue surrounded by blisters. At a glance, it looks like second and third-degree burns. I take a hospital gown from under the bed and lay it down beside her. “Do you think you’re able to change into this or would you like me to find a female nurse to help you out?”
“I think I can do it myself,” she says.
“I’ll be back in just a minute.” I close the curtain and circle around triage to find Clara, but she must be in with a patient. There’s no way Candace is going to be able to put that gown on. I can’t imagine how she’s as calm as she is with as much pain she must be in. She’s quite possibly in shock.
I page the doctor on duty, letting him know about the wound that should have been checked out hours ago, which is when the injury must have happened. When I return to the triage bay that Candace is in, I call out, “Are you all set in there?” There’s no answer. Shit. “Candace?”
As I’m getting ready to tear the curtain down, I hear a frantic mother out at the front check-in area, and I’m afraid that none of this is going to end well. I rip open the curtain, finding Candace unconscious on the bed, still fully clothed. I page a Code Pink for pediatrics and check her pulse, which is slow but not in the danger zone, and her respirations seem shallow but even. I clip an oxygen detector to her finger and find that to be in the normal range as well. She must have panicked, or the pain caught up with her. I cover her with a blanket, since she is almost surely in shock, and before I can do any further evaluation, the pediatric doc walks in to assess the situation, and I give him the run down.
“You might want to go make sure someone is settling the parents down out there, and see if they need any help. I’ll start working on this little one, but I’ll need a triage team in a few minutes.”
