Page 18 of Protect

Casey asks a few more questions as I listen intently. Her short red bob is tucked behind her ear. I catalogue the things she says in the conversation.

Second degree burns, patient’s left leg, minimal to no third degree, scattered first and second degree to the upper arm and shoulder. Ten percent of his body surface is affected. Mild steam burns in various places, smoke inhalation. Male, Caucasian, twenty-eight.

My stomach drops as I try to remember the ages of all the guys on King’s crew. Is anyone else twenty-eight but him?

I can’t think. I get up and try to remember how to breathe as I move behind the chair to watch her open her screen, trying to get a look at his file. She hangs up and looks up at me before I can read his name.

“They’re sending up a hotshot. It’s Rowan Kingsley.”

I physically feel the blood drain from my face as my heart pounds in my ears and my whole body grows hot.

“There’s something else, Vi…he fell into an ash pit.”

The tightness takes over my chest before the words have even left her mouth. Every vision I’ve had of how I imagined Jacob’s last moments to be, plays through my mind. I will my knees and my voice to stay strong as I speak. Iknewwhen taking this job that I could see this. I’ve been talking myself up about it for a month.

“We’ll put him in 306-A, he’ll be the only one in there. He may be up quite a bit through the night with the pain.” I hear myself talking to her, but my voice has the same weird echo around it that I always get when I’m willing my head to stay straight, like I’m listening to myself talk, not actually commanding my brain. It’s almost robotic.

“Vi? Are you okay?” she asks, standing.

My eyes flit to hers, they’re lined with concern. I realize I’m still white knuckling her chair and panting. I let go and flex my hands.Another day. This is another day’s problem.

“Yeah, I just…how are they saying he’s doing?” I ask her, laser focused and intent on thinking of him like any other patient. I have a job to do.

She reaches out and rubs my arm. “He’s stable.” She knows I know him—everyone does. And she knows what happened to my brother was similar. Only he wasn’t so lucky.

I breathe out a shaky breath and nod. “Okay, then. Let’s get his room ready. How long?” I ask her

“Ten to fifteen minutes,” she says, noting the room in his chart.

“I’ll grab some supplies,” I tell her, needing a second alone to compose myself before I see him.

I make my way to the supply room and close the door behind me leaning on it, begging my heart rate to come down.

I close my eyes, inhaling for five, exhaling for five. Too many memories of him wash through my mind in real-time as I grab a plastic bin to fill with some necessities, wondering what happened, or how he got out of the pit. I tell myself he’s okay and that he’s just like any other patient. I repeat it over and over until I almost believe it.

When I get to King’s room, Casey is done making up his bed. I set everything I grabbed onto his bedside tray, knowing we’ll go through it quickly.

“I just need a few more minutes here, do you want to go down and meet them in the bay?” Casey asks as she finishes up, turning the overhead light on and closing the blinds.

“Yeah,” I tell her “I’ve got it.”

She nods. “When I’m through here, I’ll go check on D Wing. Call me if you need me.”

“Thanks,” I tell her, leaving the room, I look down at my hands, shaking. I will them to steady.

The wait at the trauma bay seems endless. I fiddle with the drawstring of my pants, tighten my ponytail, drum my fingers on the desk, a million more questions and thoughts running through my head until I think I may drive myself crazy, and finally, I’m pacing. The noise around me is constant yet blends as I remember the last time I paced in a hospital like this.

I’m going to be his nurse. I’ll do my job and do it the way I always do.

I look at the clock above the main desk. Shit, I think it’s only been five minutes. I’m letting my past trauma over Jacob cloudthis situation, I know I am. I don’t even know King anymore, his being injured shouldn’t affect me like this.

But it does.

If I can just see him… just get an idea that he’ll be ok , then I’ll be fine, I tell myself as I continue my figure eight around the bay.

The elevator doors opening is an almost deafening sound, kind of like a vacuum sucking the air from me. I’m not prepared for the way the sight of King laying on that bed rips my chest wide open and tears my heart into a million pieces. His blue eyes are closed. He's been changed into a hospital gown, but his face is dirty and covered in soot from the field, and his hair is caked in sweat, mussed and knotted. I can see the area on his good arm they scrubbed clean in order to get an IV in near his hand. His left arm is bandaged, mostly his upper bicep and shoulder. I take in where his burns are as I’m briefed by the ER nurse who accompanied him up. She walks with me as a porter pushes King.

“Dr. Grayson says your doc up here will want to assess him for skin grafts.” She mentions one of the ER docs who must have treated King.

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