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“I’ll see you later, Lilly!”
“Yeah… see you later.” My voice tapers off as I watch her disappear around the corner, trying to ignore the strange tugging in my gut. That was… odd, to say the least. I shrug and take off in the opposite direction. I can’t spend all day thinking about Sandra’s strange behavior. I have a hospital full of patients to attend to.
“Lilly!”
I jerk my head in the direction of the deep voice, and my clogs screech against the waxed floors as I stop to wave at Drew. His chocolate eyes shine with a grin that causes his dimples to pop, adding a layer of boyish innocence to his handsome features. A piece of his signature brown mop falls over his forehead as he walks toward me, and he shoves it away with a pink tint to his cheeks.
“Hey, Drew. What’s up?” I ask.
“Just saying hi to my favorite intern.” He nudges me with his elbow, causing that same piece of hair to fall back into his eyes. “What are you up to? You looked deep in thought earlier.”
I shrug, reaching up and twisting the chain around my thumb. “Not much. I'm about to go check on that trauma guy from earlier tonight.” I try to give my friend a smile, but it falls flat.
“The tattooed one?” he asks, his brow raised. “You need some help?”
I sigh, crossing my arms over my chest. Here we go again. Drew is a good friend, but he can be so damn overprotective sometimes. Ever since we met on my first day of trauma rounds, he’s taken up the overbearing older brother role. I appreciate his effort, but I’m a twenty-four-year-old woman and don’t need someone to swoop in and take care of me.
I’ve been doing it fine for eighteen years, and I don’t have any plans to stop.
“He was just shot, Drew. I doubt he has the capacity to harm me. But I appreciate the offer.” I turn to leave, but Drew’s hand on my arm stops me.
“Listen to me… you’ve only been in the ER for a few weeks, so you don’t understand what these guys can be like on the right drug. One time, I treated a guy on X with half his face blown off. Still conscious, still ready to fight. You saw the size of that guy. What would you do if he wanted to hurt you? You’d be completely helpless.”
Yet I wasn’t helpless when I was saving his life.
“I think I’ll be fine. Thanks again, though.” Ripping my arm from his grip, I hasten down the hallway.
As soon as I’m around the corner, I lower my face into my hands. As much as I don’t want to admit it, Drew’s right. Luckily, I haven’t come into contact with any of the people Drew mentioned since I started in the ER, though I’ve heard plenty of stories.
The addiction is so common in Moriton—thanks largely in part to the criminal organizations funneling it onto the streets—that a huge part of my orientation was geared toward learning the warning signs and treatment plans. Not that there’s anything you can do, save for a morphine drip. Once it progresses to what doctors have dubbed the “tin man” stage, it’s already too late for intervention. They showed us videos in orientation, and I have to admit—even with all of the things I’ve witnessed—I still have nightmares about the images. “Tin man” is all too apt a name for what I saw on that screen. Men with muscles turned to steel, eyes locked in agony, yet still begging for their dose of X. Or rather, the deadly concoction of muscle relaxers and Rebound—a powerful stimulant.
It’s the muscle relaxer that gives X its euphoric properties, the thing that makes it so addicting, so deadly. Mixed with Rebound and taken intravenously, it’s said to give you a high like no other drug. Like becoming God is what the firsthand accounts all say. It’s also the only thing that can ease some of the early symptoms before the muscles in your body turn to stone and you become locked in your own miserable hell on earth.
I think back to the size of the scarred man. Even if he wasn’t on anything, if a man that size wanted to do something to me, I’d be powerless to stop him. Just like that night eighteen years ago. Just like when my parents died, and all I could do was stand and watch it happen.
I sigh, a whirlwind of emotions tearing through my mind. There’s no time to feel sorry. I have to get back to work.
I make my way over to the elevator and press the button for the ninth floor. The doors creak shut, and a few moments later, I arrive at my floor. I practically sprint down the hallway to room 947, but when I arrive at the door, I stop short, debating whether to knock.
To hell with it. I shove my hand down hard on the handle and burst into the room. My eyes fall on the empty hospital bed, the stained linens strewn on the floor as if they were torn off in a hurry. My heart falls to my feet as I gaze around the room, searching for any sign of the tattooed man. He can’t have gone far, can he?
After poking my head into the bathroom, I sprint back out of the room and tear down the hallway toward the fire escape. My movements are frenzied, and before I know it, the tip of my clog catches on the floor and sends me flying forward through the air. I hit the floor with a sharp smack, my chin coming within millimeters of the vinyl before I have time to stop my momentum with my hands.
As fast as I can, I push to my feet and sprint down the stairs to the front lobby, seconds from bursting into tears. How the fuck am I going to explain this? Oh God, will they fire me? Can they do that?
Visibly red and out of breath, I crash into the edge of the front desk. The poor woman manning it jumps from her seat, a weathered hand clutching her chest as she takes me in.
“Have you… have you seen any patients down here?” I breathe out, my question barely comprehensible. Her eyes widen like I just grew a third boob.
“Uh, no. Why, what’s up?”
“My patient has disappeared,” I whisper, glancing nervously around us. “The one who… you know… shot someone.”
The blood drains from her face. “Room 947, right?”
Oh God, this can’t be good.
“We found one of his belongings in the ambulance…” She reaches under the desk in a kind of trance. From one of the cubbies, she pulls a black leather jacket. It’s folded and wrapped in a plastic baggie, but I can still make out the thick red flames licking up the side of the sleeves. She pushes it across the counter, and I pick it up with shaking fingers.
