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I smile.

I’m busy scheming a new way to coax him out on a walk with me when a small sound stops me in my tracks.

This muffled, miserable little squeal.

Followed by a loud, dull thud against the concrete floor, like someone just fell really, really hard.

I spin around to face the noise, but all I see is concrete, a wall of cones, and flimsy plastic construction fencing.

The dim lights aren’t doing me any favors.

A few jagged shadows dance across the wall from beyond the construction zone.

For a second, I hesitate.

Come on, this is silly. What if someone did fall?

What if they need help?

I move faster, speedwalking toward the commotion, weaving through an opening in the plastic fencing where it peels back.

At first, all I see is the shadow of a thick grey pillar and a pile of dirt tucked behind a NO TRESPASSING sign pinned to the intact part of the far wall.

I think that’s all I see.

Until I notice a thin trickle of ugly, red, coppery fluid on the grey cement floor.

The liquid snakes its way out under the light, inching toward me.

Blood.

This cannot be happening.

I blink, hoping the dark-red trickle turns into oil.

It doesn’t.

I’ve seen this stuff a thousand times.

The color of everything awful.

The sight flips my RN switch. Before I know it, I’m dashing forward, ready to assess the situation.

That’s when I see a large man, huddled on the ground.

With horror, I recognize him.

“Dr. Grubert?” I can’t hide my surprise.

Sure enough, my unit’s very own renowned transplant surgeon sits doubled over on the concrete, one arm desperately trying to cover his potbelly and the other wrapped around his balding head with the bad comb-over.

Holy crap.

His nose oozes blood like he’s taken a dirt blow to the face.

I have so many questions.

So he’s not the world’s greatest doctor. I try to steer clear of Grubert when I can with his famous temper and gross habit of hitting on nurses half his age.