Page 14 of Day Shift

“No ID on her. Nothing in the car either. Nothing that tells us who she is, not even a phone,” Braxton continued. “Police are still at the estate, trying to ID her.”

Atticus’s brow furrowed deeply, and he shot me a questioning glance. It seemed we had both noted the mention of the Volkov name.

My chest tightened as I looked at her. Despite the blood and bruises marring her face, there was something strikingly beautiful about her, almost ethereal.

At that moment, the local reporter returned. He started trying to muscle through the nurses, techs, and police, throwing out questions about her possible ties to the Russian mafia’s Volkovi Notchi. Atticus stepped up and addressed the man. “You need to leave. This isn’t a press conference. Hospital policy and patient rights,” he stated, his tone brooking no argument. He gestured to one of the police officers nearby. Reluctantly, the reporter backed off, and Braxton turned to block him from coming any closer.

“Blood for type and cross, full panel, and coags,” Atticus called out to the charge nurse, who nodded and hurried to draw the necessary samples.

Atticus moved to the patient’s side, assessing her pupils and checking her response to stimuli. “Dilated and sluggish on the left,” he noted grimly. “Hang a unit of her blood type as soon as we know it,” he directed one of the nurses. “We need to stay ahead of the blood loss.”

As we worked, cutting away the patient’s clothing and removing her jewelry, we assessed every inch of her for additional injuries. I wondered what her story was, who might be waiting for her to come home. This part of the job—the intersection of clinical detachment and intense personal connection to strangers we fought to save—was a constant challenge for me.

“Let’s get her into Trauma One, stat!” Atticus said, his commanding tone snapping me back to reality. We moved swiftly, following the stretcher into the trauma room.

“Blood pressure’s dropping, eighty-five over fifty. Heart rate’s a hundred and thirty and climbing,” I reported, attaching the blood pressure cuff and ECG leads. My hands worked automatically, but my mind was unusually focused on the patient’s pale, haunting face.

“We need to stabilize her before we can even think about imaging,” Atticus instructed, frowning as he administered an IV push of epinephrine.

As we worked, I had a strange feeling I couldn’t shake off. I was drawn to this woman, protective of someone I didn’t even know. It wasn’t just her looks. There was a vulnerability that called to something deep inside me.

“Conan, keep an eye on her stats. Let me know the minute she’s stable enough for a CT,” Atticus said, moving to examine the cut on her forehead more closely.

“Got it,” I murmured, adjusting the IV line. “We’ll take good care of you,” I whispered to her, even though she couldn’t hear me.

The room quieted down as her condition stabilized. The rush of activity gave way to the steady beep of the heart monitor and the soft whir of the ventilator.

As the team prepared her for further testing, my thoughts raced. Who was she? What had caused her to run from the police so recklessly? And why did I feel such a strong pull to protect her?

“Imaging’s ready,” someone announced.

Stepping up next to her, I carefully stabilized her neck while we prepped to move her to imaging. “Let’s get her to CT now,” Atticus said, and together we all worked like a well-oiled machine, hustling the gurney down the corridor.

While we wheeled her toward the imaging suite, her face remained eerily calm under the harsh fluorescent lights.

“We’re almost there,” I muttered, more to myself than to anyone else, checking her vitals again. The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor provided a small comfort—that is, until it suddenly spiked.

“Atticus, her heart rate’s climbing—one hundred seventy…one hundred eighty!” I called out.

No sooner had I spoken than her body began to convulse violently. The stretcher shook as her arms and legs flailed uncontrollably.

“Seizure! She’s having a seizure!” I shouted. Immediately, I lowered the side rails of the stretcher and attempted to hold her head in place to prevent further injury. “She needs diazepam, now!”

Atticus raced back to the trauma room and returned within seconds, syringe already in hand. He administered the medication intravenously, his movements precise as always, while I maintained my hold, ensuring the patient didn’t harm herself.

The convulsions slowly ebbed. The incident had drawn a small crowd of medical staff, but I was solely focused on her, my hands held firm, keeping her steady despite the rush of adrenaline going through me.

When the seizure passed and her body finally relaxed, I continued to keep a close watch on her breathing, ensuring the endotracheal tube stayed properly placed and her respiration remained steady. The crisis was over, but our window to diagnose her injuries was narrowing.

With the seizure under control, Atticus smacked his hands together, eager for us to get moving. “Let’s get her to CT now. We need to rule out intracranial bleeding or swelling,” he said with a decisive edge. “Time’s critical.”

We arrived in the imaging suite, and as she was wheeled under the scanner I placed a reassuring hand on hers, a silent promise of protection. The CT machine whirred to life. My thoughts churned. I thought of all the potential complications. Seizures could indicate a traumatic brain injury, and time was not on our side.

By the time the scan was completed, the tension in the air had eased slightly, but the concern for our Jane Doe hadn’t. We wheeled her to the ICU, where they would be better able to monitor her fragile condition.

“We’re set up in ICU Room Twelve,” I relayed to the team as we entered the intensive care unit. The ICU team was ready, and a group of doctors and nurses gathered to take over. The handoff was swift but thorough. I briefed them quickly, summarizing everything from her arrival to her current condition. “Severe head trauma, recent seizure managed with diazepam, awaiting further imaging results.”

They nodded along, taking notes and asking pointed questions about her vitals and the timeline of her care. When they wheeled her to her new room, I felt a pang of concern, but I knew she was in capable hands. This was their realm, where they turned tides, battling inch by inch for every patient’s recovery.

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