Page 6 of Wings
"We're going to help with that." I moved to his left side, cataloging damage with practiced eyes. Deep gouges along his ribs, road rash from shoulder to hip, his jeans shredded enough to show more artwork on his leg. "Let's get him on monitors."
I worked with mechanical precision, starting IVs, cutting away what remained of his jacket. The leather had done some good at least, taking the worst of the slide. Nancy appeared with irrigation supplies, and we began the tedious process of washing gravel from wounds, each piece a small agony he tried to bear with clenched teeth and bitten-off curses.
His left sleeve rode up as I adjusted the blood pressure cuff, and that's when I saw it. The tattoo. A cobra, fangs bared, wrapped around his forearm in blacks and grays.
My hands froze for half a second. Just half a second, but Nancy noticed.
"You okay?"
"Fine." I forced my fingers to move, to continue their work. It wasn't the same tattoo. Not exactly. My ex-boyfriend's cobra had been facing the other direction, had that distinctive red tongue the Iron Serpents used as their signature. This was just some kid with questionable taste in body art and worse judgment about protective gear.
But my body remembered anyway.
"Kiara, I need you to prep for sutures." Ramirez's voice cut through the memory. "Facial lacs are minimal, but that gash on his forearm is going to need your artist's touch."
I nodded, grateful for the focus. This was what I was good at—the tiny, perfect stitches that would heal clean, that would leave the smallest possible scar. My attending during residency had called it artist's work, said I had hands meant for plastics if I wanted. But I'd chosen emergency medicine, chosen the chaos and adrenaline and ability to fix people quickly before sending them back to their lives.
The suture kit materialized in my hands. I cleaned the wound properly, injected local anesthetic with careful precision. The kid—Tyler—watched me work with dilated pupils that had nothing to do with head trauma and everything to do with whatever Ramirez had pushed through his IV.
"You're good at this," he slurred.
"Hold still." I softened my tone. “Deep breath, Tyler—on three.”
He inhaled. I counted slowly, “One, two…” and pinched the knot on the exhale so the pain slid past him like a wave receding.
“That trick’s on the house,” I added. “Comes with the ER frequent-flyer card. Try not to earn another punch.”
A faint smile tugged at his split lip; for a second he looked less like a statistic and more like somebody’s brother.
I began the first stitch, keeping my voice neutral. "Move and you'll have a scar shaped like a lightning bolt."
He laughed, then winced. I worked in silence, creating a neat line of sutures that would dissolve in time, leaving only the faintest reminder of tonight's lesson in physics and poor judgment.
Between patients, I headed to the staff room.
Nancy was there, rookie fatigue in every line of her posture.
“Lunch yet?” I asked.
She shook her head.
I fished a protein bar from my pocket. It was meant to be my dinner, but she looked like she needed it more than me. “It’s paleo, keto, and tastes like cardboard—perfect for night shift.”
She laughed, the shadows easing from her face. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“Only literally twelve times tonight. Go eat before the universe adds unlucky thirteen.”
After my break, I had very important work to do.
Supplies.
This was the other dance, the one nobody talked about but everyone knew happened. Expired medications that still had months of potency. Sutures marked for disposal because someone had opened the outer packaging. Antibiotics logged as contaminated when they were perfectly fine.
My messenger bag sat innocuous in the break room, hidden compartment already half full from earlier in the shift. I moved with practiced casualness, slipping packets of gauze into my pockets during legitimate restocking, transferring them later when no one was watching.
Three morphine vials marked "contaminated" after a junkie had grabbed at Stephanie during med pass.
I hesitated, thumbnail digging into the glass.
