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With adrenaline pushing me forward, I manage to crawl out the same back door they used, dragging myself behind a dumpster to hide. The pain is nearly unbearable now, and I'm gasping for breath, fighting to stay conscious.
Fumbling with my phone, I call Teddy.
"Teddy," I pant, struggling to speak through the pain. "I'm at the Westies bar... Got shot..."
"Jesus, Consty," he exclaims, concern evident in his voice. "Stay where you are, I'm coming to get you."
"Up to you," I wheeze, the darkness encroaching on my vision. "Either way... is fine..."
The world fades to black.
I smile.
Maybe this time I've finally succeeded.
Chapter Three
I glance down at my watch, the sleek silver face reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights of the ER. Ten minutes left. The night shift has been eerily quiet, and despite my disinterest in superstitions, I can't help but feel on edge. It's a full moon, after all, and those seem to bring out the worst in people. My heart races slightly with anticipation, waiting for that something bad to happen.
The ER is a sterile environment: cool white walls, linoleum floors that squeak underfoot, and the constant hum of machinery monitoring patients' lives. Shadows flicker in the corners, and the scent of antiseptic hangs heavy in the air. I'mrestless, unable to shake the feeling that tonight is different somehow. Rising from my station, I pace around the room, trying to focus on the rhythm of my steps.
As I pass the nurse's station, the hushed conversation halts abruptly, leaving an awkward silence in its wake. Samantha Fitzpatrick, one of the lead nurses, smirks as she watches me, her dark eyes narrowed with contempt. "Nice weather we're having, huh, Dr. Moretti?"
I'd made a comment about it being a full moon when I got in this evening, and Sam uses anything I say as a way to try and discredit me. Her cohorts stifle giggles behind their hands, but I refuse to engage. I genuinely don't understand why they resent me so much, but ever since I got here, they've tried to make my life a living hell.
"Real nice, Sam," I mutter, continuing my walk and forcing myself to ignore the snickers that follow. When I got into Harvard Medical School, I thought I'd finally found happiness: the perfect career, financial security, and a loving husband. But life had other plans. Instead, I was betrayed by my ex-husband and one of my bridesmaids, and I’m now working a job where the women hate me simply because I exist.
"Full moon," I whisper to myself, trying to shrug off the tension that clings to me like static. Just a few more minutes, and I'll be free of this oppressive atmosphere – at least until my next shift.
The siren's piercing wail cuts through the uneasy silence like a knife, snapping me out of my thoughts. "Code blue; code blue." I can't help but chuckle to myself, feeling a strange sort of satisfaction. Two minutes left in my shift, and it seems that the universe has decided to give me a parting gift.
At least I feel somewhat validated.
I rush toward the triage room, my heart racing with anticipation. The other nurses scramble around the bed,attending to the patient who fights for each breath. His face is tinged blue, his eyes wide with fear.
"What do we have?" I ask, my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins.
"Male, 45, presenting with severe respiratory distress, cyanosis, and his blood pressure is dropping rapidly," one of the nurses replies, her hands working deftly on the man's IV.
"What's his respiratory rate?" I demand, my mind already racing through possible diagnoses and treatments.
"Eight breaths per minute, labored," she answers, her brow furrowed with concern.
"Any known medical history?"
"History of severe asthma, but he's never presented like this before. No recent exacerbations, and he's not responding to initial nebulized albuterol."
I nod, taking in the information as I assess the patient. His chest rises and falls unevenly, his breaths shallow and strained. A sense of urgency takes hold of me – if we don't act fast, this man will certainly die on my watch.
"Get ABG, stat chest X-ray, and start a central line. Notify respiratory therapy, and let's get him on high-flow oxygen, 100%," I order, watching as the nurses spring into action.
"ABG and chest X-ray on the way. Respiratory therapy is en route. Central line in progress," the nurse confirms, her voice tense but controlled.
"His breath sounds are diminished on the right. Chest X-ray needs to confirm, but we might be dealing with a tension pneumothorax," I say, my mind racing through the possible complications and outcomes.
"Got it. ABG results are critical – pH 7.21, pCO2 75 mmHg, pO2 55 mmHg," the nurse reports, her eyes flicking from the screen to the patient and back again.
"Initiate non-invasive positive pressure ventilation. Let's prepare for an emergent chest tube insertion on the right side. Blood gases indicate respiratory acidosis; he's not ventilating adequately."
