8. Harper
EIGHT
Harper
UAB Hospital
1:17 PM
The overhead speakers crackle to life. “Trauma team to Bay Two. Incoming priority one. ETA three minutes.”
I glance up from my charting, the adrenaline already kicking in. “What’s the story?” I ask, heading toward the trauma bay.
“Female, mid-to-late 20s,” one of the nurses rattles off. “Found unconscious in an alley. No ID, no phone. Severe facial trauma, multiple contusions, possible internal injuries. Good Samaritan called it in.”
“Jane Doe,” I mutter, noting the lack of ID as I grab a fresh set of gloves. That means extra documentation, baseline labs, and a security report on top of everything else.
The gurney bursts through the doors moments later. EMTs rattle off vitals as we swarm around them. “BP’s tanking—90 over 50. Tachycardic at 140. Pupils sluggish but reactive. We intubated on-site for airway protection.”
“GCS?” I ask, stepping in beside them.
“Six,” one of the EMTs replies grimly.
I glance down at her as we transfer her to the trauma bed, my breath catching for a moment. Her face is barely recognizable—one eye is swollen shut, her cheekbone is a mess of bruises, and dried blood streaks across her temple. But it’s not just the fresh injuries that strike me. Beneath the angry, swollen patches are older, fading bruises—greenish-yellow marks on her jaw and the edges of her arms.
This isn’t just one bad night. This is a pattern.
I feel a familiar pang in my chest, a memory stirring uninvited. My aunt Clara, hiding black eyes behind oversized sunglasses. The whispered excuses about “walking into a door” or “tripping down the stairs.” I was just a kid then, but I remember the way my mom’s face hardened every time Clara came over with a new “accident.”
I grip the edge of the bed tighter, willing the memory away.
This woman—this Jane Doe—might not be Clara, but the signs are all the same. My stomach tightens as I note the defensive wounds on her forearms, the deep gashes like she tried to fight someone off. She fought hard, but it wasn’t enough.
“Let’s get a second IV line and hang more fluids,” I call out, trying to keep my voice steady. “I want a full set of labs—CBC, BMP, type and crossmatch. Imaging ASAP.”
I focus on the tasks, but my mind won’t stop spinning. She didn’t deserve this. No one does. And even though I don’t know her name, I feel this fierce, protective pull, like I have to do everything I can to make sure she gets out of here alive.
One of the residents leans over to examine her abdomen. “Possible rib fractures. Let’s add a chest X-ray and abdominal CT to the list.”
“On it,” I reply, grabbing a marker to label the IV bags.
The room hums with activity as we stabilize her. Blood pressure starts to rise, and the heart monitor’s shrill alarms settle into a steadier rhythm. She’s holding on, but just barely.
As we stabilize her vitals and prep for imaging, I step back for a moment, letting the rest of the team take over. My eyes wander back to her bruised face. Who did this to her? A boyfriend? A husband?
I know I’m not supposed to let it get personal, but it’s already too late.
“Harper,” one of the nurses says, jolting me out of my thoughts. “Imaging’s ready for her.”
“I’ll take her,” I say quickly, already stepping toward the gurney. It’s not entirely necessary—usually, a tech or transporter would handle this—but I don’t want to hand her off just yet. Not when she’s alone and vulnerable. Not when she doesn’t even have a name.
The other nurse raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. “Alright. Let us know if you need anything.”
“Will do,” I say, guiding the gurney down the hall toward radiology.
Her battered face stirs a protective instinct I haven’t felt in a while. Most days, I can separate myself from the tragedies that roll through these doors, but not this time. This one’s sticking with me.
As I maneuver her into the imaging suite, I glance down at her motionless form. “Hang in there, Jane,” I murmur under my breath. “We’ve got you.”
“Who does this to someone?” the tech murmurs beside me, his voice tinged with a mix of horror and disbelief.
“Someone who needs to feel powerful,” I reply, my voice steady but tight. The words leave a bitter taste in my mouth, the familiar anger bubbling just below the surface. I keep my face neutral, not letting the depth of it show.
The tech exhales sharply, his focus shifting back to the screen. “I’ll need to get clear chest and abdomen images. Can you help steady her if she starts to shift? We’ll need her as still as possible for the scans.”
I nod, stepping into position beside the gurney. “Just let me know when you’re ready.”
As he moves to set up the machine, I glance down at her battered face again, and my stomach twists even tighter. There’s something about her that feels too familiar—too close. The bruises, the broken skin...it all pulls at memories I’ve buried deep, ones I rarely let surface.
I take a slow breath, forcing myself to focus. Whoever she is, she’s here now. And I’ll do whatever it takes to protect her and nurse her back to health. And then, hopefully, I can convince her not to go back.
6:08 PM
The soft beep of monitors greets me as I step into the step-down unit. It’s quieter here than the chaos of the ER—a different kind of tension hangs in the air, less urgent but still heavy. My patient, the Jane Doe from earlier, lies motionless on the bed, her face bruised and swollen, an oxygen cannula looped over her ears.
Technically, I should be wrapping up my shift soon. My assignment for the day kept me tethered to this case, ensuring a smooth transition from the ER to the ICU and, now, to step-down care. When they moved her out of the ICU a couple of hours ago, her vitals had stabilized, and the immediate crisis had passed. She doesn’t need constant monitoring anymore—just fluids, pain management, and rest. But seeing her like this, battered and alone, makes my chest tighten.
I’ve worked plenty of cases where patients arrive with no name, no ID, no backstory—just injuries that tell pieces of a story no one else can. Usually, it’s easy to compartmentalize, to do the job and let the next shift take over. But not this time. There’s something about her that tugs at me, and I can’t bring myself to leave her alone once my shift ends.
I grab her chart from the end of the bed and flip through the notes. BP’s improved, fluids are doing their job, and imaging ruled out internal bleeding or major fractures. The worst of it is her face and ribs—severe bruising, maybe a cracked rib or two, but nothing life-threatening. At least, not physically. The psychological scars of an attack like this? Those will take much longer to heal.
I glance back at her as I set the chart aside. “Jane Doe,” I murmur to myself. She hasn’t stirred since arriving in step-down. Her body is slack and motionless beneath the blanket. But now, her fingers twitch against the sheet, and her eyelids flutter.
I take a step closer, drawn to her bedside as her breathing shifts. “Hey there,” I say softly, standing beside her. “Can you hear me?”
I step closer, keeping my movements calm and deliberate. “Hey there,” I say again softly, standing at her bedside. “Can you hear me?”
Her eyes open a sliver, glassy and unfocused. She blinks a few times, her brow furrowing like she’s trying to piece something together.
“You’re in the hospital,” I explain, keeping my voice low. “You’ve been hurt, but you’re safe now. Do you know your name?”
Her lips part, dry and cracked, but no sound comes out. I grab a cup of water from the bedside table, sliding the straw between her lips. She takes a hesitant sip before leaning back against the pillow, her face twisting in discomfort.
“Easy,” I say, setting the cup down. “You don’t have to talk if it’s too much right now. Just nod if you can understand me.”
Her gaze meets mine, and she gives the faintest nod. Relief washes over me.
“That’s good,” I say, smiling gently. “I’m Harper. I’m one of the nurses here, and I’ve been taking care of you today.”
Her eyes drift around the room, still unfocused. Then, a hint of panic flashes across her face. “Where…” Her voice is raspy and weak. She swallows hard, trying again. “Where am I?”
“You’re at UAB,” I say, leaning in slightly. “You came in earlier today. Do you remember what happened?”
She blinks again, her brows knitting together. “No. I don’t…” Her voice breaks off, and her hand lifts to touch her face, her fingers brushing the bruises on her cheek. Her eyes widen in alarm.
“Don’t worry,” I say quickly. “You’re safe now. No one’s going to hurt you here.”
Her hand drops back to the bed, trembling slightly. “I don’t remember,” she whispers, her voice cracking.
“That’s okay,” I reassure her. “Sometimes, these things take time. For now, let’s focus on getting you comfortable and letting you heal. You’re not alone in this, okay?”
She nods again, her gaze still flickering around the room like she’s searching for something—or someone. The sight tugs at me in a way I can’t explain, like an old wound being reopened. I swallow hard, pushing the thought aside.
“Let me know if you need anything,” I say, stepping back. “I’ll be getting off shortly, but I'm here for the next hour.”
She doesn’t respond, her gaze fixed on the ceiling now. As I turn to leave, the same unease from earlier creeps back into my chest. There’s something about this woman—something fragile and raw—that makes it impossible to just walk away.
Who are you, Jane Doe? And what happened to you?
I step out into the hallway, pulling the door softly closed behind me. The nurses’ station is bustling, a mix of day and night shift staff swapping updates as the transition begins. One of the nurses, Kelly, glances up from her charting as I approach.
“Any change with Jane Doe?” she asks, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
I shake my head. “Not yet. She’s awake but still disoriented. No memory of what happened—or even who she is.”
Kelly frowns. “Think it’s permanent?”
“Probably not,” I reply, leaning on the counter. “Temporary memory loss happens after severe trauma, especially with head injuries. Once the swelling goes down and her brain has a chance to rest, there’s a good chance things will come back to her.”
“Poor thing,” Kelly murmurs, her gaze flicking toward Jane Doe’s room. “To wake up like that and not know a thing—it’s awful.”
Before I can reply, the charge nurse, Janet, approaches with a clipboard. “Heads up, everyone,” she says, her tone brisk. “Heather just called out—tested positive for COVID. We’re short one for the night shift, so everyone will have to pick up the slack.”
A collective groan ripples through the group. Kelly mutters something under her breath about staffing ratios.
Janet sighs. “I know it’s not ideal, but we’re going to need some coverage. If anyone’s willing to pick up a few extra hours, let me know.”
“I’ll stay,” I say, straightening. “I can do a double if you assign me to step down. I’ve been following Jane Doe all day, and I’d like to see her through. The idea of leaving her alone all night with no one even knowing she is here…”
Janet arches an eyebrow. “A double shift? You sure, Harper?”
I nod. “Yeah. I don't have anything to do, anyway. And my next shift isn't until Tuesday, so I have plenty of time to rest. I don’t want her waking up confused and scared all night without someone familiar checking in on her.”
Kelly gives me a small, approving smile. “That’s kind of you.”
“It’s nothing,” I say, brushing it off. “That's why I'm here! To pick up the slack.”
Janet scribbles something on her clipboard. “Alright. You’re officially on for step-down tonight. Thanks for stepping up.”
As the group disperses, I grab a fresh cup of coffee and glance back toward Jane Doe’s room. Maybe it’s just the nurse in me, but something about her pulls at me. Until she remembers who she is, I’ll make sure she knows someone’s looking out for her.