Page 53 of Bozo

I take the file from her hands. “It’s Friday night,” I reply. It’s always busy in the emergency room on a Friday night. Hell, every single night is busy.

I flip open the file and scan the patient details. Male, mid-forties, multiple lacerations and contusions. Possible concussion. Another bar fight, most likely.

"Cubicle three," Sandra says, already moving on to the next case.

I nod and make my way down the crowded hallway. Taking a deep breath, I pull back the curtain to cubicle three. The man on the bed looks up at me, his left eye swollen shut, dried blood caking his nose and split lip.

"Good evening," I say, keeping my voice steady and professional. "I'm Dr. Fallon. Can you tell me what happened?"

He winces as he tries to sit up straighter. "I do not recall," he tells me, his French accent thick and heavy. “I woke up like this.”

I sigh. This isn’t the first time I’ve heard a patient tell me they don’t recall how they got their injuries. It’s usually one ofthree reasons. One, they’re a victim of domestic violence and are unable to speak up. Two, they’re affiliated with a gang, mafia, or club. Then there’s the third option: they get so drunk or high, they actually don’t remember what the hell happened to them. "Let's take a look at those injuries, shall we?"

As I begin my examination, I can't help but wonder how many more patients like this I'll see before the night is through. It's going to be a long shift.

I gently probe the man's face, noting the extent of the bruising and swelling. His right cheekbone feels tender, possibly fractured. As I examine the lacerations on his scalp, he winces and pulls away.

"Sorry," I murmur. "I know it hurts. I'll try to be quick."

His one good eye watches me with rapt attention as I continue my assessment. There's something off about him, which has me on edge.

"Can you tell me your name?" I ask, shining a penlight in his eyes to check pupil response.

He hesitates a beat too long before answering. "Jean. Jean Dubois."

I make a noncommittal sound, jotting notes in his chart. The name doesn't match the one on his intake form.

"Well, Mr. Dubois, I'm going to order some x-rays and a CT scan to rule out any fractures or internal bleeding. In the meantime, I'll have a nurse come clean and dress these wounds."

As I turn to leave, his hand shoots out and grabs my wrist. His grip is surprisingly strong. “No one,” he growls thickly. “No one is to know that I’m here.”

“Mr. Dubois,” I say, reaching for his fingers and prying them from my wrist. “This is a hospital. You cannot manhandle me.” Once I get him to release his hold on me, I ease out of the cubicle.

My heart races as I pull the curtain closed behind me. Something is definitely not right with this patient. I make my way to the nurses' station, my mind whirling with possibilities.

"Sandra," I call out, spotting her behind the desk. "That patient in cubicle three, can you pull up his intake form again?"

She nods, tapping away at the computer. "Here you go," she says, turning the screen toward me.

I scan the information quickly. The name on the form reads Antoine Robert, not Jean Dubois. My stomach clenches as the unease grows. There’s definitely something suspicious about this man.

"Everything okay?" Sandra asks, noticing my furrowed brow.

I hesitate, unsure how much to share. "Can you do me a favor? When you go in to clean his wounds, take note of any tattoos or identifying marks. And be careful. There's something off about him."

Sandra's eyes widen slightly, but she nods. "Will do, Dr. Fallon."

I'm about to head off to my next patient, when the emergency room doors burst open. Two men stride in, their faces grim. But my spine tingles as I look at them. One of them is blonde and has a scar on his jaw; the other has dark hair and even darker eyes. Both men look as though they don’t belong.

"We're looking for a man," one of them announces to Sandra, his accent just like my patient’s. French. "Mid-forties, dark hair. He’s injured."

My blood runs cold. Whoever these men are, they're after my patient. I catch Sandra's eye, and she nods imperceptibly. She feels it too.

I know that she has this under control. I continue on with my other patients, needing to ensure that they’re cared for, but my mind races as I think of the patient with the fake name. He’s been really worked over, and I can’t help but think that he’s introuble. Serious trouble. The two men who came to look for him scream danger.

It takes me around thirty minutes before I’m able to check on the patient again. As I approach cubicle three, I hear hushed, angry voices. I sneak into the cubicle, making sure not to make a noise with the curtain, but I freeze when I see both the men have entered his cubicle. The blonde one has his back to me.

"You should have realized what would happen, Antoine. You should have known we’d come for you."

---