“You’ve got Mr. Smith?” Marie asks, when Leah has clocked in for her 7a to 7p and started tracking down the night shift for handoff. “He’s in 3, in the traction frame. Bilateral GSWs at the knee. Which reminds me,” Marie says, stepping over to the white board behind the nurses’ station and slashing a diagonal line across four existing tick marks. “Fifth one this week,” she says.
“Slow week,” Leah comments. She’s in the pool for eight and it’s already Sunday morning. Unless something crazy goes down, they’re all going to lose to Dr. Groban, who can usually be counted on to under bet by at least two.
Marie knocks twice on the desk. “Don’t jinx us, sweetheart. There’s a full moon tonight,” she warns. “Anyway, I admitted him around midnight. Allie down in the ED called up report and she said he basically got thrown out of a black SUV onto their doorstep. I’m pretty sure he lied to me about everything from his name to his allergies. Heller assessed him and he’s scheduled for surgery around noon. He’s NPO and the nursing assistant already gave him a betadine bath so he shouldn’t need much more than morphine and someone to swear at.”
Marie throws her brain in the shred box and smiles, hooking her messenger bag over her shoulder. “I stole some of that good hazelnut coffee from the doctor’s lounge. It’s almost finished brewing. Have a good day.”
“You’re the best, Marie!” Leah calls after her.
*
Mr. Smith looks like the kind of guy Leah’s dad would tell her to preemptively mace if he got within five feet of her.
He refuses her offers of help with adjusting the bed incline and the gigantic pile of pillows and ice around his legs and instead curses like a sailor as he tries to drag himself further up toward the head of the bed using the trapeze.
Leah watches for a full minute, keeping her face blank. Smith gets approximately one inch higher than he started before sliding back down into the divot of the bed. “Better?” she asks blandly.
Smith glares at her, but he doesn’t say anything when she calls Anna in to help with a lift.
*
Leah takes the five minutes she can actually afford of her thirty minute lunch break to scarf down a sandwich standing over the sink in the nutrition room and call over to Memorial. “Hey Rach, ready for the weekly update?”
“You first,” Rachel says. “How many?”
“Five.”
“Ha, tie,” Rachel says. “We actually got all of ours at once. Five huge-ass Russian guys—dressed entirely in black, tattoos with, like, barbed wire and thorns and shit—clinging to each other and dragging themselves into the ED. By the way, did I tell you we’re getting a new Ortho wing?”
“No way,” Leah says, incredulous. “We’ve beat you three weeks straight!”
“I don’t write the checks,” Rachel says. “Some guy named Crane donated it. Construction’s been super accelerated. They’re breaking ground beside the Cancer Center next week.”
“Unfair advantage,” Leah accuses. “The EMTs are going to divert all of them to you now.”
Rachel laughs. “Please. Like Max’s ridiculous pining for Allie doesn’t get half of them into your ED? This is just evening the playing field. I’ve got to go give meds. Talk to you next week?”
“Whatever,” Leah says, fondly, and hangs up. She shotguns one of the tiny orange juice cups in the fridge before heading back out to the floor.
There’s a man in a suit standing in front of the nurses’ station.
“Can I help you?” Leah asks.
“I’m here to see a man with two gunshot wounds,” he says, smiling amiably. “One to each knee.”
“Do you know the patient’s name?” Leah asks.
He considers, head tilting. “Probably Smith. Maybe Jones, but he didn’t strike me as the creative type.”
Alarm bells start ringing in Leah’s head. “I’m sorry. If you don’t have the patient’s name and permission to visit, I can’t give you any information,” she says automatically, frantically trying to remember which color code matches to an assault threat.
The man’s phone beeps with an incoming text. “That’s all right,” he says. “I remember James telling me now. He’s in room 3.”
Oh my God, call security, Leah mouths to one of the nursing assistants as she chases the man down the hall.
“We’ll be just a second,” he says, shutting the door to Mr. Smith’s room in her face.
Leah shoves at it with her whole body. It cracks open, but just barely, the legs of one of the visitor’s chairs visible through the gap. Smith’s pulse oximetry starts beeping madly. It’s set to alarm when the O2 sat falls below 90%. Oh shit, Leah thinks, imagining the man’s hands around Smith’s throat. “Sir, I need to check Mr. Smith’s vitals right away,” she yells.
“Just a second!” the man repeats, his voice almost cheerful. His tone drops low, but Leah can just make out, “You may have misunderstood me before. I need the real address where you dropped off the girl after you kidnapped her.”
“Second Street!” Smith says. “Second Street! The yellow house on the corner!”
“Thank you,” the man says, a tinge of exasperation in his voice. He opens the door and slips out. “All yours. Thanks for taking such good care of him,” he says, with all apparent sincerity, before disappearing down the stairwell.
Leah sprints to the bedside and grabs Smith’s wrist to feel the frantic jumping of his pulse. His skin is clammy. She clips the pulse ox sensor back on his middle finger and the oximeter stops it’s shrill beeping, the percent rising, flickering back and forth between 96 and 97.
“Um,” Leah says, looking at Smith’s pale, bloodless face. “Let’s get you down to surgery.”
FILL: Total Knee Arthroplasty [Hospital Staff, Reese] [Teen] [Swearing, Kneecapping]
“Slow week,” Leah comments. She’s in the pool for eight and it’s already Sunday morning. Unless something crazy goes down, they’re all going to lose to Dr. Groban, who can usually be counted on to under bet by at least two.
Marie knocks twice on the desk. “Don’t jinx us, sweetheart. There’s a full moon tonight,” she warns. “Anyway, I admitted him around midnight. Allie down in the ED called up report and she said he basically got thrown out of a black SUV onto their doorstep. I’m pretty sure he lied to me about everything from his name to his allergies. Heller assessed him and he’s scheduled for surgery around noon. He’s NPO and the nursing assistant already gave him a betadine bath so he shouldn’t need much more than morphine and someone to swear at.”
Marie throws her brain in the shred box and smiles, hooking her messenger bag over her shoulder. “I stole some of that good hazelnut coffee from the doctor’s lounge. It’s almost finished brewing. Have a good day.”
“You’re the best, Marie!” Leah calls after her.
*
Mr. Smith looks like the kind of guy Leah’s dad would tell her to preemptively mace if he got within five feet of her.
He refuses her offers of help with adjusting the bed incline and the gigantic pile of pillows and ice around his legs and instead curses like a sailor as he tries to drag himself further up toward the head of the bed using the trapeze.
Leah watches for a full minute, keeping her face blank. Smith gets approximately one inch higher than he started before sliding back down into the divot of the bed. “Better?” she asks blandly.
Smith glares at her, but he doesn’t say anything when she calls Anna in to help with a lift.
*
Leah takes the five minutes she can actually afford of her thirty minute lunch break to scarf down a sandwich standing over the sink in the nutrition room and call over to Memorial. “Hey Rach, ready for the weekly update?”
“You first,” Rachel says. “How many?”
“Five.”
“Ha, tie,” Rachel says. “We actually got all of ours at once. Five huge-ass Russian guys—dressed entirely in black, tattoos with, like, barbed wire and thorns and shit—clinging to each other and dragging themselves into the ED. By the way, did I tell you we’re getting a new Ortho wing?”
“No way,” Leah says, incredulous. “We’ve beat you three weeks straight!”
“I don’t write the checks,” Rachel says. “Some guy named Crane donated it. Construction’s been super accelerated. They’re breaking ground beside the Cancer Center next week.”
“Unfair advantage,” Leah accuses. “The EMTs are going to divert all of them to you now.”
Rachel laughs. “Please. Like Max’s ridiculous pining for Allie doesn’t get half of them into your ED? This is just evening the playing field. I’ve got to go give meds. Talk to you next week?”
“Whatever,” Leah says, fondly, and hangs up. She shotguns one of the tiny orange juice cups in the fridge before heading back out to the floor.
There’s a man in a suit standing in front of the nurses’ station.
“Can I help you?” Leah asks.
“I’m here to see a man with two gunshot wounds,” he says, smiling amiably. “One to each knee.”
“Do you know the patient’s name?” Leah asks.
He considers, head tilting. “Probably Smith. Maybe Jones, but he didn’t strike me as the creative type.”
Alarm bells start ringing in Leah’s head. “I’m sorry. If you don’t have the patient’s name and permission to visit, I can’t give you any information,” she says automatically, frantically trying to remember which color code matches to an assault threat.
The man’s phone beeps with an incoming text. “That’s all right,” he says. “I remember James telling me now. He’s in room 3.”
Oh my God, call security, Leah mouths to one of the nursing assistants as she chases the man down the hall.
“We’ll be just a second,” he says, shutting the door to Mr. Smith’s room in her face.
Leah shoves at it with her whole body. It cracks open, but just barely, the legs of one of the visitor’s chairs visible through the gap. Smith’s pulse oximetry starts beeping madly. It’s set to alarm when the O2 sat falls below 90%. Oh shit, Leah thinks, imagining the man’s hands around Smith’s throat. “Sir, I need to check Mr. Smith’s vitals right away,” she yells.
“Just a second!” the man repeats, his voice almost cheerful. His tone drops low, but Leah can just make out, “You may have misunderstood me before. I need the real address where you dropped off the girl after you kidnapped her.”
“Second Street!” Smith says. “Second Street! The yellow house on the corner!”
“Thank you,” the man says, a tinge of exasperation in his voice. He opens the door and slips out. “All yours. Thanks for taking such good care of him,” he says, with all apparent sincerity, before disappearing down the stairwell.
Leah sprints to the bedside and grabs Smith’s wrist to feel the frantic jumping of his pulse. His skin is clammy. She clips the pulse ox sensor back on his middle finger and the oximeter stops it’s shrill beeping, the percent rising, flickering back and forth between 96 and 97.
“Um,” Leah says, looking at Smith’s pale, bloodless face. “Let’s get you down to surgery.”