PART 3
Denise found me at the nurses’ station around 4:40 a.m., updating notes with my second terrible coffee of the night.
“You’re off in twenty minutes,” she said.
“I know.”
“You are not authorized for overtime.”
“I know.”
She leaned closer. Her perfume hit before her words did.
“If you’re trying to make some dramatic point on your way out, don’t. The hospital is not a stage.”
I glanced toward Room 314.
“No,” I said. “It’s just where people land when their bodies give out.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Watch your tone.”
At 6:12 a.m., Marcus came back from surgery.
He had more tubes than before.
Ventilator.
Drains.
IV lines.
Monitor leads across his chest.
His face looked cleaner now, which somehow made him seem more fragile.
Dr. Wong from neurology spoke quietly at the foot of the bed.
“Next forty-eight hours matter. We watch swelling. We watch response. No promises.”
No promises.
Hospitals run on that sentence.
I took Marcus as my primary patient.
Patricia, the charge nurse, raised an eyebrow.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“You’re already on Caldwell’s list.”
“I’ve been on Caldwell’s list since I told a patient he could pray before surgery and didn’t bill him for the oxygen.”
Patricia snorted.
I went into Room 314 and closed the door halfway.
The room smelled like antiseptic, plastic tubing, and warm machinery.
Outside, the city was waking up under cold rain.
Inside, Marcus Kim lay motionless under white sheets, fighting a war nobody could see.
I checked his pupils.
Charted vitals.
Adjusted the ventilator tubing.
Repositioned his shoulder to protect the skin.
Then I did the thing Denise hated.
I talked.
May you like
“Good morning, Marcus. I’m Rebecca. You’re at St. Catherine’s Medical Center in Virginia. You took a hard hit, but you made it through surgery. Your job is boring now. Heal. Let us do the rest.”
The ventilator answered for him.
