Leo notices him too. I see it in the slight narrowing of his eyes from across the corridor. He doesn’t approach. He just switcheshis angle so he can see both the ladder and the adjacent stairwell.
It could be nothing. It probably is. Still, my pulse ticks faster.
By midmorning, the trauma bay fills with overlapping noise. A stretcher rolls in with a construction worker clutching his arm. Blood stains his sleeve in dark patches that deepen against the pale fabric. The metallic scent reaches me before I even get close to him.
I slip on gloves, the snap of latex loud in my ears, and step forward. My body responds before my mind can wander. This is where I’m strongest. This is where I’m centered.
The monitor beside me emits a soft, rhythmic beep. The patient winces as I palpate his forearm, his muscles tight beneath my fingers. Sweat beads at his hairline despite the cold from outside.
“Talk to me,” I instruct gently. “How did it happen?”
He answers between clenched teeth. I listen, assess the range of motion, and order imaging.
Across the bay, I glimpse Leo in my peripheral vision. He stands near the entrance now, positioned where he can see both incoming doors and the hallway beyond. He looks like he belongs there, but I know he’s memorizing faces.
For several minutes, I forget the hallway, the pulse in the supply closet, and the maintenance worker’s glance. There’s only the patient. And for a brief stretch of time, that’s enough.
Until my pager vibrates. The sound cuts through the noise like a blade.
Restricted wing consult. Upper surgical corridor. Room 7B.
I glance down at the small screen. The attending listed is accurate. The room number exists. And the format looks legitimate. Everything aligns, but my stomach tightens anyway.
Leo’s pale gray eyes lift immediately when he sees my expression change.
“Problem?” he asks quietly.
“Restricted consult,” I answer, holding up the pager.
His eyes dart to the screen, then back to my face. “I’ll walk you.”
We move through the hallway together. Staff part around us instinctively, the rhythm of the floor uninterrupted, stretchers weaving past in usual patterns. The air feels cooler as we near the upper wing, quieter too, the hum of conversation thinning. The lighting transitions from bright, utilitarian white to softer overhead panels designed to reduce the glare against the stainless steel and glass.
The secure checkpoint doors come into view. Leo slows slightly beside me. I swipe my badge, and the lock disengages instantly.Leo stops at the threshold. Policy bars him from going beyond without additional clearance.
His gaze holds mine, and a muscle ticks once in his cheek.
“Call if you need me,” he says.
“I will.”
I step through, and the doors seal behind me with a soft hydraulic sound that feels louder in the quiet corridor. The upper surgical wing is always calmer. Fewer voices, fewer interruptions.
Room 7B waits at the far end. My shoes echo in the silence, the sound rolling out in front of me. I notice the whir of the ventilation, continuous and mechanical. I notice the faint drone of distant equipment behind closed doors.
I swipe my badge at 7B’s doorway, and the reader flashes green. The door opens easily, and I step into the room expecting to see an attending reviewing a chart or a patient waiting for evaluation.
Instead, it’s empty. No patient in the bed. No chart active on the monitor. No surgical tray on the counter. The sheets are pulled tight and smooth, undisturbed, and the wall monitor remains dark. The air feels still in a way hospital rooms rarely do, faintly stale, as though no one has been inside for hours.
I hesitate only a second before stepping fully across the threshold. The door closes behind me with a muted mechanical sound.
I take three steps toward the bed, scanning the room more carefully now. The metal railings gleam. The sink is dry, and the trash bin is empty. I turn back toward the door and press the handle. It doesn’t move.
For a second, I assume I didn’t fully disengage the lock, so I swipe my badge again and wait for the green flash. It flashes red.
I swipe it a second time, slower now, watching the small panel carefully. Red again.
A faint dimming passes through the overhead lights, subtle enough that I might have missed it if I weren’t already on edge. The room doesn’t go dark, but the brightness lowers just enough to change the tone of the walls.
