Page 60 of No Greater Love
"You'll be shadowing Nate for the first few hours," Sophia added, reading my expression. "He's one of the best triage nurses we have. Learn from him, then take the lead when you're comfortable."
I took a deep breath. "Okay."
Sophia smiled. "Good. Go find Nate. He's expecting you."
I found Nate at the triage desk, reviewing charts with the same methodical precision he brought to everything. He looked up when I approached, and I saw something soften in his expression—the same gentle concern he'd shown me that night on his couch.
"Ready to see how the other half lives?" he asked, gesturing to the chaos of the waiting room beyond the glass partition.
"Define ready." I hesitated, then added quietly, "What if I'm not as prepared as Sophia thinks?"
Nate's expression grew serious. "You've got the best instincts in the department, Tasha. Trust them."
The simple confidence in his voice steadied me. "Let's do this."
The first patient was Mrs. Rodriguez, a regular who came in monthly for medication refills she could get at any urgent care clinic. Nate handled her with patient professionalism, explaining once again that the ER wasn't the right place for routine prescriptions, while I watched his technique—how he kept his voice calm, his questions focused, his documentation precise.
"The key," he murmured to me as Mrs. Rodriguez left, "is not to get frustrated with the frequent flyers. They're usually here because they don't have anywhere else to go."
The second patient was a middle-aged man who approached the desk with a slight grimace.
"I've been having back pain," he announced.
Nate's fingers moved to the keyboard. "Okay, sir. Did you injure yourself recently? Lift something wrong? How long has this been going on?"
"Five years."
Nate's hands stilled. He looked up with a perfectly neutral expression. "Well, sir, you got here just in the nick of time. Did something change in the character or nature of your pain that made you come in today?"
"No."
I bit my lip to keep from smiling as Nate calmly directed the man to the waiting room.
The third patient was a college kid with obvious food poisoning, retching into a basin. Straightforward triage—IV fluids, anti-nausea meds, probable discharge in a few hours. I watched Nate's hands as he started the IV, steady and sure.
Then came Mr. Swanson.
"What allergies do you have, sir?" Nate asked, fingers poised over the keyboard.
"Advil," Mr. Swanson replied confidently.
I watched Nate start typing "ibuprofen" into the allergy field.
"No, no," Mr. Swanson said, leaning forward to see the screen. "Advil."
Nate paused, looking up. "Yes, sir. Ibuprofen."
"No, I can take ibuprofen. I just can't take Advil."
I felt my left eye twitch involuntarily. Nate's expression remained perfectly neutral, but I caught the slight tightening around his own eyes.
"Ah," Nate said carefully. "Well, name-brand Advil has orange dye in it. Are you allergic to that?"
"No, no. Just the Advil part."
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Nate slowly deleted "ibuprofen" from the allergy field and typed in "Advil, not ibuprofen."
"Let someone else wrestle with that one," he murmured to me after Mr. Swanson left.
