Page 94 of Fire & Ice

He catches sight of Briana lingering just outside the wide, sliding glass doors to the trauma bay, and he makes his way over to her side. She doesn’t say anything, just wraps his hand in hers and squeezes, resting her head on his shoulder as they watch the dramatic scene unfolding inside the room.

They’re in an odd position, the two of them—not exactly members of this particular team, but not unwelcome, either. They stay out of the way.

In front of them, Tripp’s clothes are swiftly cut away, his body is prodded this way and that, and Leander begins to go numb, with one minute quickly becoming indistinguishable from the last. Vaguely, he registers that the room is loud andbustling with commotion, but nothing translates into more than a low-level buzzing in Leander’s mind.

The whole thing is a blur.

The F.A.S.T. ultrasound reveals some concerning bleeding in Tripp’s belly, so he’s taken to the O.R. for an exploratory laparotomy. Bri has to return to her shift on the unit, but Autumn shows up before she leaves—and thank God for that, because Leander is barely functioning.

While he spaces out, Autumn guides him around the hospital, wherever it is he needs to be. From the ED to the O.R. waiting room, to yet another, smaller waiting room outside the I.C.U., Autumn's steady presence by his side keeps Leander from simply curling up in a ball on the floor or possibly going catatonic.

She manages his phone, relays messages from Beau (“everything is fine, bruised spleen, they’re closing him up”),and rubs his hand comfortingly, softer than Leander’s ever seen her before. She puts coffee in his hand, inserts herself between Leander and nosy well-wishers who show up or text to find out what happened, and eventually, she walks Leander into the I.C.U. to see Tripp, once he’s finally out of recovery.

Beau's status in the hospital has the I.C.U. bending the rules just slightly—Leander shouldn’t even be allowed in, not technically. And yet, he finds himself welcomed, like a brother (or a husband),accepted by Beau's word alone that he’s important enough to remain at Tripp’s side.

Tripp is—well, that’s hard to describe. When Leander first walks in, and despite being incredibly prepared for what he knows he’ll see, it’s a shock. His usually bright and vibrant friend is pale, small-looking in his hospital bed, buried under wires and multiple IV lines attached to assorted medicationpumps. There’s a cast on his left forearm, another running from thigh to ankle on his left leg, and a compression garment encouraging circulation on his right.

On top of all that, he’s still intubated, the breathing tube now hooked up to a giant ventilator that hums and hisses steadily, but only beeps occasionally.

Each of those things, Leander expected. He knew that Tripp’s left radius and ulna were both broken in the fall, that his left kneecap was cracked, too. He knew that Tripp was lucky enough to avoid surgery for both of those things—for now. He knew that Tripp had a couple of fractured ribs, still more that were badly contused, plus additional severely-bruised bones in his hips, pelvis, and a likely concussion in his head. Heknewwhat a post-surgical ICU patient on a vent would look like. Heknew.

But what he didn’t anticipate was having to reconcileTrippas that patient: still, vulnerable,sick.

When Leander steps to Tripp’s bedside and takes his hand, Tripp’s eyes flutter partially-open and he grimaces around the tube, which has Leander feeling a strange flood of relief. Not relief over him being uncomfortable, but over the proof that Tripp’sinthere, that he’s still himself and still fighting. The moment is brief, though, with Tripp slipping back off into a medicated sleep almost immediately.

That slice of life, with very little deviation, is how the next few days pass by as well. Brief and marginal progress immediately followed by some setback, tiny victories that Leander is told he should celebrate as if they’re big ones.

He just wants to take Tripp home.

Instead, he zombie-walks through the hours, assisting with Tripp’s care as much as he’s allowed, which mostlyamounts to cleaning him up and changing his bed linens alongside the staff. Sometimes, he’s permitted to help with cast care to Tripp’s injured arm and leg, and with the frequent turning and repositioning of his limp body. He’s not supposed to, but Leander is quick to do things like empty Tripp’s catheter bag, and use the oral swabs Beau nicks from the supply room to carefully clean Tripp’s teeth and tongue and around the tube.

He makes sure that everyone who enters the room knows how precious Tripp is and that they treat him as such, but mostly, Leander sits and waits. The white noise of daytime talk shows and the kind of trash that airs on TV at three a.m. become the soundtrack to his life, overlaid with the ever-present beeping and hissing of multiple IV pumps and the vent.

The I.C.U. nurses and aides fuss over Leander nearly as much as they do Tripp, bringing him half-sandwiches and tiny plastic juices, ginger ale poured into styrofoam cups, and donuts from the nurse’s station. They also come with chastisement for his lack of rest, admonishments to be ‘careful,’ and not ‘wear himself out.’

“Tripp is going to need you even more in these coming days,” they warn.

That sounds like heaven—Leander can’t wait for Tripp to need him. To be fuckingusefulagain, instead of eternally occupying the comfy chair someone dragged into the room, acting like he’s a tumor growing out of the seat cushion.

Beau is there often, too, of course, though he manages his well-being a lot better than Leander does, or perhaps that’s Briana taking the wheel. It’s probably Briana. Either way, Beau actually leaves the hospital most nights to sleep at home, he showers and shaves and doesn’t lose ten pounds in five days. He also continues going to work—hanging out, signing orders, anddoing his charting from the ICU where he can keep an eye on Tripp, which is almost suspiciously convenient.

On day four, Tripp is supposed to be extubated, but instead is diagnosed with pneumonia. An aggressive course of antibiotics resolves the worst of that in another day and a half, but early on, Leander and Beau are told to “prepare themselves,” because infection after smoke inhalation is frequently fatal.

Tripp fights hard and beats the odds once again, not that Leander ever doubted him, even for a second.

(Maybe for a second. The dead of night is a lonely, painfully quiet time in the hospital.)

During their stay, Leander comes to learn the cracks in the wall of Tripp’s I.C.U. room like the lines on his own face. Using his non-dominant hand, he could draw perfectly the borders of the small water spot marring the ceiling overhead. He knows all of the staff by name—from Kevin Lee, the environmental services kid who empties Tripp’s trash most nights and is attending graduate school for physics, to Tripp’s slightly strange, but clearly competent attending, Aliyah Reading.

By day five, Leander is sporting a beard that he thinks Tripp would absolutelyhate.He’d probably demand it be dragged all over his thighs before insisting Leander shave, but he’d hate it.

On day six, Beau parks him in front of the mirror in the hallway bathroom and demands he do something about it. Eventually, Beau switches out with Bri, throwing his hands up in exasperation when Leander simply stands there with the razor in his hand and stares blankly at his homeless-looking reflection, glaring furiously at the bags under his eyes.

Bri shaves his face. She does so with the practiced, gentle, and non-judgemental touch of a nurse who is entirely used to caring for people who are unable to care for themselves.

As a thank you to Bri for his newly-shaven face, Leander takes a shower.

That evening, Tripp’s treatment team stops the sedation, and Tripp wakes up.

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