Page 241 of The Night Shift
EGH waiting room
I hiss through my teeth as one of the interns dabs antiseptic over the gash on my shoulder. The skin is hot and stretched tight. Probably a hairline fracture, maybe a dislocation. I don’t know. I don’t care.
There’s still blood under my nails. Theo’s blood.
It’s like my body’s gone on autopilot while my brain’s been left alone with an endless supply of all the worst-case scenarios it can fathom.
What if he never wakes up?
What if he wakes up but it’s not him anymore?
What if he wakes up and looks at me like this is all my fault? Which it is.
Everything hurts.
If he dies — if I loseTheotoo — I swear to God, I’ll start ripping out everyone’s throats until the universe spits him back.
Another sharp sting. My body jerks instinctively.
“Sorry, Dr. Moore,” the intern says, voice high and nervous as he fumbles with the gauze roll in his hands. “It’s just, I think it’s a partial tear. You should have come in earlier.”
I told the hospital staff that it was a break-in gone wrong. That Theo and I were at his place and there was an armed intruder.
“Well, I didn’t,” I snap, my eyes still fixed on the trauma doors. “So fix it.”
He nods quickly and starts wrapping gauze around my shoulder with clumsy precision. My arm’s limp in the makeshift sling. The fabric tugs against the sticky mess of sweat and blood crusting to my ribs. I’m pretty sure I look like hell.Definitelysure I feel worse.
“I’m recommending an MRI,” he says.
“I don’t need an MRI.”
“We can wait until Dr. Carter is out of surgery —”
The sound of his name from someone else’s mouth makes my chest physically hurt. “I said I’m fine.”
He doesn’t argue again. The bandage wraps tight around my shoulder. I press my good hand against my chest like I can stop something from breaking.
He’s not dead. He’s not dead. He’s not dead.
If I say it enough, maybe it’ll be true.
The double doors swing open.
Dr. Corbin steps out. My body lifts without my brain. I’m already on my feet.
“He made it through surgery,” says Dr. Corbin.
I nearly collapse from the breath that leaves my body. “Can I see him?”
He hesitates. “Not right now.”
Confusion chases away my brief flash of relief. “Why not?”
“It’s not looking good, Dr. Moore.”
“But you just said he made it through.”
“His blood pressure crashed on the table. Twice. We stabilized him, but there was significant thoracic trauma. We had to resect part of the lung, control a hemothorax. He's got fractured ribs, soft tissue damage, and likely secondary hypoxic injury from blood loss. He’s…unresponsive.”
