Page 4 of Doctor Hot Mess

“Don’t move!” The man’s voice cracks as he somehow finds his way into the triage room. He is waving a gun at me. His hand is shaking so hard I wonder if he even knows where he’s aiming, which almost makes the situation more terrifying.

I freeze. The clipboard in my hands slips to the floor with a clatter. I look around quickly and realize it is just me, the crazy man with the gun, and a pale, barely conscious kid slumped in a wheelchair. Blood soaks through a towel pressed to his stomach.

“You’re a nurse, right?” the man demands, his wild eyes darting around the small triage room. “You fix him. Now.”

I nod, keeping my voice steady even though my heart feels like it’s trying to claw its way out of my chest. “I’m a nurse,” I say. “I can help him. But I need to understand what is going on with him.”

The man jerks his chin toward the wheelchair. “All you need to understand is he needs help! He’s dying!”

“Joey,” the man says, his voice breaking as he brushes blood-matted hair back from the kid’s forehead. “Stay with me, little brother. Stay with me.”

Little brother. The words hit me like a gut punch. Nineteen, maybe twenty years old, and already caught up in something that has all of us in danger.

My eyes flick to the kid. Blood pools beneath the towel, dripping onto the floor in a steady rhythm. If I don’t do something fast, he’s not going to make it.

I glance at the door, half-expecting someone to barge in and end this nightmare. However, the triage room is tucked away from the main ER, and the door is shut. It’s just me, this man with his gun, and the teenager bleeding out in front of me.

“Okay,” I say softly, raising my hands. “I’m going to help him. But I need to wash my hands and get some gloves.”

The man’s eyes narrow. “Don’t try anything,” he says, his voice low and full of panic. “If you call anyone, if anyone walks in here, I swear?—”

“I’m not calling anyone,” I say quickly. “He has an open wound, so I need to make sure I don't introduce any infection.”

He hesitates, then jerks his head toward the supply cabinet. “Go. But I’m watching you.”

“Okay,” I say, my voice steady. Years of handling panicked patients—and their families—have trained me for this. Or at least, that’s what I’m telling myself. “You need to trust me to do my job if you want me to help you. That will include putting the gun down. Can you do that for me?”

The man’s bloodshot eyes snap to mine, frantic. “Nice try!” he shouts, the words almost a sob. “I know how this works! You think I'm a dumbass? No way! The gun stays!”

“I can't work effectively with a gun at my head," I say, raising my hands. “I’m a nurse. I don’t care about anything except helping your brother. Let me help him.”

His eyes dart to the boy in the wheelchair, then back to me. “Swear it. Swear you’re not trying to pull something! Because if a cop shows up, Joey isn’t the only one who will die today.”

“I swear,” I say softly, raising my hands. “Are we cool?”

The gun wavers, but he doesn’t lower it. Behind him, the kid lets out a low, pained groan. My eyes flick to the towel—bright red now, the stain spreading fast. He’s losing too much blood. We’re running out of time.

I force myself to stay steady, raising my hands a little higher. “I need to see the wound properly. Help me get him onto the table,” I say, keeping my voice calm and firm. “I can’t work like this if he’s in the chair.”

The man freezes like he doesn’t trust me. His eyes flick between me and Joey before he growls, “Fine. But no funny business.”

He holsters the gun briefly, shoving it into the waistband of his jeans, to lift Joey under the arms. I grab the boy’s legs, careful not to jostle him more than necessary, and together, we lift him onto the triage bed. Joey’s head lolls to the side. His skin is pale and clammy, and his breathing is getting more shallow by each breath.

“Okay,” I say, brushing sweat from my forehead. “I’m going to stop the bleeding, but I need supplies. Scissors, gauze, clamps.” I point to the cabinet in the corner. “Can I grab them?”

“Go. I’m watching you.”

“I know,” I reply, sharper than I intended. His glare cuts into me, but I ignore it and move to the cabinet. My hands tremble as I grab what I need. The weight of his gaze presses against my back like a loaded gun—and it literally is.

This is bad. Worse than bad. What the hell happened before they got here? A robbery gone wrong? A fight? And why is he acting like someone’s going to storm in and arrest him the second I open the door?

When I turn back, his jaw is tight, and his fists are clenched like he’s about to go apeshit on all of us. He is a loose cannon.

“You’re doing great, Joey,” I murmur, mostly to steady myself as I press gauze against the wound. Blood seeps through instantly, warm and sticky against my gloves. The bullet’s still in there, buried deep. If I can keep him from crashing, we might have a chance.

I glance up at the man. His wild eyes are locked on his brother, a mix of rage and desperation twisting his expression. “You’re fixing it, right? You’re stopping the bleeding?”

“I’m stopping the bleeding,” I lie. Sort of. The truth is, the gauze is only slowing it. The bullet is still in there, shredding blood vessels and tissue. I need to be honest—but not too honest.

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