2. Harper
TWO
Harper
Tuesday, February 3
UAB Hospital
1802 6th Avenue S
7:10 PM
The gun looks bigger up close.
“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.
I keep my tone calm and steady. “I can stabilize him for now, but he’s going to need surgery. That bullet needs to come out, and I can’t do that here.”
The gunman’s head snaps toward me, his expression shifting from panic to fury. “No!” His voice rises, sharp and cracking. “No one else! You can do it. You have to. The more people involved, the less likely any of us make it out of here alive.”
My stomach twists, but I force myself to hold his gaze. “Listen to me,” I say firmly, my hands never stopping their work on Joey’s wound. “I’m not calling the cops. I’m not calling anyone except someone who can save him. If that bullet stays in there, he’s going to bleed out. Is that what you want?”
He freezes, his chest heaving. The gun twitches in his hand. “You’re lying. You’re just trying to get me arrested?—”
“I’m trying to save him,” I cut in, my voice rising just enough to snap him out of his spiral. “That’s it. I’m not a surgeon. I can’t safely remove the bullet without killing him.”
Joey groans, his head lolling to the side, and the man’s face crumples. He takes a shaky step toward the bed, clutching the back of the wheelchair like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
“What do you need?” he asks finally, his voice a rasp.
Relief flutters in my chest, but I don’t let it show. “I need a surgeon,” I say carefully, keeping my tone neutral. “No cops. Just a surgeon. I know the general surgeon on the floor today. He's someone I trust. He’s good, and I'm pretty sure if I call him and ask him to come in here quietly, he will.”
The man’s eyes narrow, and suspicion flashes across his face. “How do I know you’re not lying?”
“You don't, but we're running out of options here,” I reply evenly. “We’ve worked together for years. I can ask without giving him too much, and because he knows me, he will probably come quietly if I tell him to. If we don’t move fast, your brother isn’t going to make it.”
The man curses under his breath, pacing a short, frantic line next to the bed. He doesn’t want to trust me—I can see it in every rigid line of his body. But Joey’s fading fast, and he knows it.
“One person,” he growls finally, pointing the gun at me again. “No cops. No alarms. You screw me, and I swear?—”
“I’m not going to screw you,” I interrupt. “Just let me call him.”
He doesn’t lower the gun, but he jerks his head toward the counter where my phone sits next to the clipboard I dropped earlier. "Call him on speakerphone."
My hands shake as I rip off my bloody gloves and grab it. I pull up Jonah’s name and click it, not sure how this is going to go. Please, God, pick up.
"Bellinger."
“Jonah,” I say as steadily as I can manage. “I need you in triage room four. Quietly. We have a situation, and I need you.”
The gunman waves his gun and then mouths, "Make sure he comes alone."
"Make sure it's just you. I need this to stay between us."
There’s a beat of silence, and I can picture him frowning, his sharp brain already working through the possibilities. “Harper, what the hell?—”
“Please,” I cut in, throwing a glance at the gunman, whose daggers for eyes are boring into me. “Just come. I’ll explain when you get here.”
Another pause. Then, “I’m on my way.”
The line goes dead, and I set the phone down, exhaling slowly. The gunman’s glare doesn’t waver, but at least he’s letting me move.
A few agonizing minutes later, the door creaks open, and Jonah steps inside. He pauses for half a second, taking in the scene: the blood pooling on the table, the unconscious young man, the wild-eyed gunman gripping the weapon so tightly his knuckles are white.
His jaw tightens, but his expression stays calm, his hands raised slightly as he steps fully into the room.
“Harper,” he says evenly, his sharp gaze cutting to me for a moment. I see the questions in his eyes—What the hell is going on? Are you okay?—but I shake my head subtly. Not now.
“Who are you?” the gunman demands, the gun jerking slightly in his hand.
“I’m Dr. Bellinger,” Jonah replies, his voice measured. “A surgeon. Harper called me to help.” His tone doesn’t waver as his eyes flick briefly to the boy on the table. “What happened?”
“That doesn’t matter!” the man snaps, his voice cracking. He gestures at Joey with the gun. “He's got a bullet in his gut, and you're going to get it out and stop the bleeding!”
Jonah doesn’t react to the outburst. His gaze is steady, assessing the situation like it’s just another emergency—a patient in trouble, a solution to find. He moves slowly toward the bed with his hands still raised slightly, keeping his palms visible.
“I’ll do everything I can,” he says calmly. “But I need to see what we’re dealing with first.”
“Don’t try anything,” the gunman growls, his eyes darting between Jonah and me.
Jonah nods once, dropping his hands to his sides as he approaches the bed. He snaps on gloves with practiced efficiency while his eyes drop to the wound. Blood seeps through the towel in steady pulses, and I can tell he’s already calculating how little time we have.
“Lower left quadrant,” I murmur, slipping into the rhythm of medical jargon. “Entry wound only. I slowed the bleeding, but the bullet’s still in there.”
Jonah gives a slight nod, his expression neutral but focused. “Good work,” he says, his tone clipped. “But we’re not doing this here.”
The gunman’s head snaps up, and the gun wavers dangerously. “What the hell does that mean?”
Jonah looks at him directly, calmly, and unflinchingly. “It means he needs surgery,” he says simply. “Right now, we’re stabilizing him, but that bullet is tearing him up inside. If I try to remove it here, he’ll bleed out. The OR is his only chance.”
“No!” The man’s voice rises, frantic. “No one else! You fix him here!”
Jonah’s jaw tightens, but his voice doesn’t lose its steady edge. “I understand you’re scared,” he says, carefully keeping his tone neutral. “But I’m telling you the truth. If we stay here, he dies. If you let us move him to the OR—just me and Harper—he has a shot.”
The gunman paces. His breaths are shallow and ragged as he processes Jonah’s words. Joey groans weakly, his body twitching on the table, and the man flinches like he’s been struck.
“Fine,” he says finally, his voice cracking. “But no one else. Just you two. And if you try anything—” He waves the gun toward Jonah, his hand trembling.
“No one else,” Jonah agrees. He glances at me, and I see the flicker of reassurance in his eyes before he turns back to Joey. “Let’s get him ready to move. Harper, I’ll need you to grab a portable monitor and fluids.”
I nod, already moving to the supply cabinet. My hands shake as I gather what we need, but I force myself to focus. One step at a time. Stabilize Joey, keep the gunman calm, and stay alive.
Jonah moves with quiet authority. His calm demeanor is a stark contrast to the chaos brewing around us. “Sir,” he says, glancing at the gunman, “if you want your brother to survive, you’re going to have to trust us.”
The man doesn’t respond, but he takes a step back, giving Jonah just enough space to roll the bed out of there.