Page 13 of Day Shift

“So, how’s Nurse Ratched doing?” he asked, a smirk spreading across his face. He’d taken to calling me that ever since I’d controlled a particularly violent patient with nothing but a steely glare and a stern reprimand.

“Keeping things running smoothly,” I replied, blowing over the surface of the piping hot coffee before taking a sip. I savored the bitter taste and then continued, “Even managed to win over Mrs. Jenkins today.”

“Mrs. Jenkins? The elderly lady in hypertensive crisis?”

“Yep. Showed her a video of me playing ‘Here Comes the Sun’ on my acoustic, and she was putty in my hands.”

Atticus chuckled lightly, a smirk playing on his lips. “You’ve always had that magic touch with the ladies.”

“Yeah, yeah—especially the grannies,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Hey, heard through the grapevine that Samantha’s switching to days. Must be a relief, huh?” I nudged him with an elbow, watching his face for the smile that always came when Samantha was mentioned.

With a crooked smile he nodded, brushing a hand through his hair, a sign he was mulling something over. “Yeah, she’s really excited about it. Working nights has been tough after the kidnapping ordeal. Her therapist thinks switching to a more normal daytime routine will be beneficial for her mind and body. I’m just relieved that the press and legal chaos from the Volkovi Notchi mess is finally settling down. I wish we’d caught Viktor Volkov that night. It’s frustrating that he and his top men just disappeared. Even though he’s probably holed up in Russia somewhere, you never know when that snake might come back to strike again.”

“Yeah, that whole thing was such a nightmare,” I said. “I still can’t believe something like that could happen right here in Tacoma. At least Samantha has a lot to keep her busy. She must be excited—not just about the shift change, but also about the big wedding coming up. How are the preparations going?” I grinned, imagining the bash that would celebrate those two finally tying the knot.

Atticus took a long sip of his coffee before responding, his expression softening. “She’s up to her ears with the planning. You know Samantha; she’s all wound up about the details. She wants to keep working right up until the big day. I suggested she take some time off, you know, to relax and hang out at home more. Murphy would love the company.”

I laughed, picturing the tiny shih tzu that had more toys than any dog I knew. “That pup’s living the dream. But you know Sam, always on the move. I bet she’s just not wired for downtime.”

“Yeah, she wasn’t having any part of cutting back her schedule. Said she’d get bored staying at home.” Atticus shook his head lightly. “I get it though. After everything with her kidnapping and the mafia, work helps her feel grounded and gives her something to focus on. She says staying busy keeps her mind off…everything that happened. Can’t blame her really.”

“Tough as nails, that one. Most people wouldn’t be able to jump back into life so quickly after such an ordeal, but Samantha—she’s faced down her demons and is still standing strong.”

“Exactly why I fell for her,” Atticus muttered, almost to himself, his lips curling into a small smile. “She’s got this resilience that just blows me away. Doesn’t let anything keep her down for long.”

Just then, the intercom buzzed to life, calling for a trauma team to assemble. We tossed our cups in the trash, ready to dive back into the fray.

When I entered the trauma area, a voice came in over the dedicated radio speaker. It was unmistakably my brother Braxton, his tone urgent and strained.

“St. John’s, this is Medic Four. We’re en route with a critical patient and need a trauma team on standby. ETA ten minutes. Over.”

I grabbed the radio and pressed the button to respond. “Received, Medic Four. This is Nurse Thorin at St. John’s. Can you provide more details on the patient’s condition and confirm vitals and interventions? Go ahead, Medic Four.”

“Hey, Conan, it’s Brax. We’ve got a bad one. Female, late twenties, involved in a high-speed MVA. Car wrapped around a tree. Required extrication with the jaws of life. She’s unconscious and unresponsive, Glasgow Coma Scale at 3. Significant facial and cranial trauma with a deep laceration across the forehead. Multiple superficial cuts and bruises across her body, but no obvious fractures to arms or legs. We’ve intubated and have an IV running. BP is ninety over sixty, pulse one twenty and thready. Administered twenty milligrams of etomidate and a hundred micrograms of fentanyl for sedation and pain. We’re maintaining c-spine precautions and have started cooling measures. How do you copy?”

“Copy that, Brax. We’ll get all set up on our end. Trauma team is assembling now. Drive safe, and keep us posted if there are any changes in her status.”

I set down the radio mic and turned to Atticus, who had been standing behind me. “Sounds like a rough one,” he said. “Let’s get everyone ready and the on-call specialists here.”

As the team mobilized, the siren’s distant wail grew steadily louder. I prepped a gurney with the help of a fellow nurse, making sure we had everything necessary for immediate intervention: trauma shears, gauze, additional IV supplies, and a portable X-ray machine on standby.

While we gathered all the necessary materials and instruments, I also took the time to prepare my mind. The tension in Braxton’s voice had hinted at the severity of this crash, and the fact that the jaws of life had been used meant this patient could be in bad shape. It was a grim picture. We had to be on top of our game.

The scene erupted into organized chaos as the ambulance backed into the emergency bay intake area. Several police cars pulled up alongside it, their lights silently strobing. There was even a truck from one of the local news stations pulling into a parking spot outside.

The ambulance doors flew open. Braxton was the one first out, guiding the gurney. The other paramedic joined him to wheel the woman into the triage area. She lay motionless. What I could see of her face was ashen and smeared with blood. Her long, dark brown hair was matted against her skull.

“Let’s move, people!” Braxton called out as the other EMT and a couple of our techs transferred her to the hospital gurney we had readied. Her neck had been carefully stabilized with a cervical collar, and they remained vigilant in protecting it as they moved her. When she was settled, they placed the portable ventilator next to her.

Suddenly, I was startled by the popping of camera flashes. A man near the door held his camera at arm’s length and pointed it at the woman, clicking away.

Stepping forward, I blocked the guy with my body. Being a thick six-three came in handy sometimes. Thankfully, one of our security staff moved to usher the photographer away.

I got to work and swapped out the blood-soaked gauze on the patient’s forehead for fresh pads while keeping an eye on the monitors, tracking her vitals. When I caught sight of the deep gash beneath the gauze, I winced. It was worse than I’d imagined.

Braxton leaned in and briefed us about the incident. “She broke into the Volkov estate, triggered alarms, and took a car. Drove like a bat out of hell in the rain before wrapping it around a tree. Even with side-impact airbags, it looks like her head hit the window hard enough to shatter the glass.”

The presence of police suddenly made sense.

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