The girl looking back at me from the mirror hanging over the changing room sink was tired. Shadows hung under her eyes, a furrow was forming between her eyebrows. Curly brown hair piled on the top of her head was slowly coming loose, strands falling around her, just like her resilience. She had hardly eaten anything in twenty-four hours, and there’d been no sleep. Not even ten minutes just to catch a break. Now she wore a polyester tunic and trousers as thin as her patience was becoming.
I sighed, my breath lightly fogging the mirror. Outside was chaotic and the world was turning too quickly. Too quick. The pressure built in my chest again. That feeling. A brace. Tightening and tightening. Closing in. I closed my eyes. Concentrated on breathing. In through my nose. Hold. Out through my mouth. I couldn’t do this now. Not in the middle of A&E. Not in front of people. Not at work where they’d sign me off again and push me back into therapy.
The brace tightened. Shit. Breathe. Amy needed me. The A&E needed me. Breathe.
Seconds became minutes. The fog on the mirror condensed into droplets. I watched my chest. I counted the seconds. I felt my heart start to slow. My ribs relaxing. I rolled my shoulders back. Tipped my chin up. Exhaled. The mask reset.
Four more patients came through triage. A head injury. A fever. A fall. And then another bar brawl. The man swayed on his feet, beer hot and sickly on his breath. Beside him his friend wasn’t much steadier.
“How can I help?” I started.
“Someone’s face hit my hand.”
He pushed his right hand towards me, knuckle torn and bloody, skin stretched over swollen flesh.
“You mean you punched someone?” I didn’t lift my eyes, gently pressing the space between the metacarpals.
“How, I’m tellin’ you, mate, I didn’t start it,” he slurred, boozy breath filling the space between us as he pushed to his feet. “He threw the first punch. Ask anyone.”
“I don’t care who started it. Sit down before you fall over.”
“Don’t fucking talk to me like I’m a kid. We’ve been waitin’ three fucking hours. Three. You lot useless or what?”
He lurched sideways and then rocked backwards, hitting his legs on the side of the bed, then wobbling to the left and knocking into the steel trolley of equipment beside me.
“If you keep swearing, I will have security remove you.” I held my palm out and waited. “Now let me see your hand.”
The drunk football fan shook his head. “You hear that, Kev? Big threat. Gonna call the bizzies on us.”
The man struggled to his feet again, swaying hard, stepping into the space between us until there was none left. His face was mere centimetres away from mine, breath hot on my face, staring at me, eyes glossy and unfocused, pupils wide and useless. Then he swayed hard again, falling sharply to his right and nearly taking me out with him.
“Jesus Christ…” The words slipped out before I had a chance to clip them.
The curtain snapped back.
“Enough.”
The word cut clean through the noise.
I stepped back without thinking, watching as Dr Hargreaves took the man’s hand and closed his grip around the swollen knuckles, pressing just enough to make his point. Not rough. Not kind.
The man hissed, swore under his breath.
“You broke it punching a wall,” Dr Hargreaves said, already turning the hand, already in control. “Either you let us deal with it, or you leave.”
“Like hell I am,” the bloke spat. “You touch me and I’ll…”
The rest of his words vanished as Dr Hargreaves pressed into the man’s hand again, fingers firm over the knuckle.
“See here? Base of the second metacarpal. Likely non-displaced. He’ll need an X-ray to confirm, then splinting for support. Keep the hand elevated, ice on swelling. No funny business.”
The man’s jaw clenched. Dr Hargreaves didn’t flinch. Not a flicker, pressure maintained over the broken hand. His voice was flat, clinical, but it carried. Clear. Controlled. The nurse beside me relaxed, stepping closer, already moving to prep the X-ray request, and the tension in the room seemed to settle, just a fraction.
“Sophie.” The dark-haired man pulled the rubber gloves from his hands, his voice softer. “I’ve got this. Go see to someone else.”
I slipped out through the curtains, concentrating on the air filling my lungs, not the deep pressure building in my chest, pushing up from my diaphragm.
“Soph?”
