Nurse Cindy motions to the inside of his lower arm. “It’s this. Do you recognize it?”
My eyes lock onto the scorpion tattoo, and I shake my head.
“It’s the symbol of a local motorcycle club,” Dr. Harris explains. “This is Vic Malone’s son, Dax.”
“They’re thugs,” Trisha says less tactfully. “I’d call it a gang, not a club.”
“We still have a duty of care,” Dr. Harris says to his staff. “No matter who this is, we must treat him with the same level of care we do everyone else.”
“We’re understaffed,” Nurse Cindy counters. “We can’t look after everyone.”
My eyes grow itchy, threatening to tear up. “But he collapsed. You need to help him.”
“Come on,” Dr. Harris says. “Let’s get him into room one-twelve.”
“But that’s Mrs. Gibson’s room,” the nurses protest in unison.
Dr. Harris nods. “Yes, and there’s a vacant bed in that room.”
The nurses relent and whisk him away on the gurney, leaving me standing motionless and dumbfounded.
Three days ago during my last shift, they aided the choking woman, and praised me for sounding the alarm. Now their contempt is plain to see. They wish I’d let this patient go unnoticed, lying by the janitor’s closet.
But how could I do that?
Two
Icollecthisleatherjacket by the closet door and inspect the back. It’s emblazoned with a large scorpion, encircled with the words ‘Logan’s Point Scorpions.’
How is it possible—my bubble is so small—I didn’t know there’s a motorcycle gang in close proximity to my home?
Fingers crossed, Trisha was exaggerating.
I sling the jacket over my arm and return to the nurses’ station. My eyes stay firm on room 1-12. I can’t fault Trisha for being wary. My first thought was he was here to steal.
Why didn’t it occur to me he could need medical attention?
My mouth runs dry as I edge around the counter, fingers twitching against the laminate. Although I can’t fathom what draws me to him, I’m dying for another glimpse.
‘Wuthering Heights’ sits by the computer keyboard, mocking me. I should move on and keep another patient company, but I’m cemented here.
There was something about his eyes.
Desperation.
Fear.
Resolve.
Have the medical staff been in the room for a millennium, or what? Finally, Dr. Harris emerges. He's focused on his ledger, and disappears down the hallway. Cindy leaves a moment later.
I gain her attention with a questioning stare.
“He’s conscious,” Cindy calls out as she moves into another room.
The pounding of my heart softens, and I inhale a renewing breath. I don’t know this boy, but the relief is exhilarating.
Trisha leaves the room, holding a container of blood vials. “Vanessa, can you please keep an eye on the room?” she asks, passing the counter. “Let me know if Dax Malone tries to leave.”
