Page 18 of Day Shift

Emily chuckled softly as she moved past me and into the room. I realized I’d been staring at our Jane Doe with a goofy expression on my face. “The pretty lady is doing much better than when she came in. That’s for sure,” Emily said, stepping aside so I could see the monitors better. “Her heart rate’s steady, blood pressure’s looking good, and oxygen levels are strong. We’re all surprised she didn’t break any bones in such a violent collision.”

I stepped further into the room and leaned over to see Jane Doe better. The deep bruises on her arms and throat were an alarming shade of purplish black, a terrible reminder of the crash’s severity. “Bruises look rough, but it’s good there’s no broken bones,” I said, adjusting the blanket slightly, careful not to disturb her.

“Definitely lucky on that front,” Emily agreed. “Seat belt and airbags did their job. They just left their marks is all. She’s mainly suffering from the overall trauma that comes along with a high-impact crash.”

I nodded, scanning the monitors. The numbers there told a story of positive progress. “Good thing she thought to buckle up in her race to get away from…well, whatever she was running from in a stolen car,” I said.

“Oh, and about that.” Emily’s eyes darted to Jane Doe’s face. “We were told that Tacoma PD is going to post a guard at her door, and as soon as she’s medically able, they will take her into custody to be arraigned for the various crimes she committed.”

“Hmm, good to know.” I turned my attention to the sutures on her forehead, placed as if a plastic surgeon had done them. Just what I’d expect from Atticus. “How’s the head wound?” I asked.

“Healing well. She’ll have a scar, but the sutures are looking good. They should heal nicely if we keep infection at bay.” Emily’s fingers lightly touched the edge of my girl’s brow as if to emphasize her point. “She didn’t stir much last night, but when the doctor checked her pupils a few minutes ago, they were responsive and reacted normally. She’s in a good spot.”

“Responsive pupils—that’s great to hear. Any timeline on reducing ventilator support?” I asked, already thinking ahead about her recovery phase.

“The docs are planning to wean her off the ventilator in the next couple of days—if she keeps improving at this rate,” Emily added in a cautious but optimistic tone as she made a note in the chart.

I stepped closer to Jane Doe’s side, observing her quiet breathing. The rhythmic rise and fall of her chest was reassuring. The ventilator hummed, a constant companion in the sterile room. Her face remained peaceful, despite the severity of her injuries.

For reasons I couldn’t explain, I felt a compulsion to listen to the sounds in her chest. “Do you mind if I listen to her lungs?” I asked, pulling the stethoscope from around my neck.

“Sure, go ahead.”

I listened intently to the clear sounds of her breathing and strong heartbeat. “Lungs are clear. Surprising after right middle lobe atelectasis,” I said after a moment, hanging the stethoscope back around my neck.

“Yeah, she’s a fighter. I think her athleticism is helping her recovery.”

“Thanks for the update, Emily. I’ll swing by later to check on her progress.” My gaze lingered on Jane Doe for a moment. She was no longer just another patient; she was mine to protect until someone who loved her found her.

“No problem, Conan. I’ll keep you posted if anything changes.” Emily turned and left the room, moving to check on another patient.

Before I walked away to start my shift, I leaned down and whispered, “You’re doing a great job, pretty angel. Just keep taking one breath at a time.”

I stepped out of the ICU area. The hospital was slowly waking up. I took a deep breath, the taste of hospital coffee now appealing as I prepared to start another day at St. John’s.

Chapter nine

The next morning, I’d barely clocked in for my shift when my phone started vibrating in my pocket. It was a text from Atticus: Break room. Now. That tone, even in a text, meant trouble, so I hustled down the hallway.

Bursting into the break room, I found Atticus planted in the corner of the room, gritting his teeth, crossing his arms, and staring up at the TV. The room was empty except for us. The screen showed the reporter—Niles Johnson, from Channel 5—once again camped outside our emergency department. He had that familiar smug look plastered across his face as he spoke into the microphone. His overly slick appearance and pompous demeanor grated on my nerves.

I joined Atticus in front of the TV, fixing my eyes on the screen. “What’s he saying now?”

“They’re running a ‘Do you know this woman?’ segment,” Atticus muttered disgustedly. “Look at this. They’re using the photos of her from the scene of the wreck as they extricated her from the car and from when she was brought in.”

On the screen, images flashed of Jane Doe, bloodied and unconscious, her face barely recognizable.

“—and if anyone recognizes this woman or has any information about her actions leading up to the accident, please contact local authorities or us here at KING Channel 5 News.”

“They’re using her accident photos? That’s low,” I huffed out.

“Listen to this,” Atticus said, his voice tight.

Niles started recapping how she’d broken into the Volkov estate, stolen a car, and led police on a wild chase that had ended at the base of a tree.

“The individual did not appear to know whose home she was breaking into,” Niles was saying. “Authorities have found no links to the man who led the notorious Volkovi Notchi crime syndicate. At this point, all our findings indicate she stumbled upon the property by accident.”

“And they just blast her face all over the news, no regard for her privacy,” I spat out, rubbing my fingers across the stubble on my chin. Niles continued his narrative by detailing her pending charges.

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