SIXTEEN
JORDIE
The usual hospital soundtrack—alarms, squeaky Crocs, overhead codes—has been replaced by the dull shuffle of our disaster team filing toward the carpark like we’re extras in a very underfunded zombie film.
At this point, we’re not running on fumes.
We’re running on the memory of fumes and a prayer whispered over instant coffee that tastes like burned mop water.
Someone claps me on the back, which feels exactly like being struck by a cement pillow. “See you in four days!”
Another voice from somewhere behind me groans, “I only got three. Bastards.”
I hike my duffel higher on my shoulder and immediately regret it. A sharp twinge zips across my lower abdomen. I twist the wince into something that looks vaguely like a smile and hope it reads as chill, not “Hi, I’m dying.”
“Tuesday for me,” I offer, trying not to sound like a martyr. “Working through Friday.”
A chorus of fake sympathy follows.
Beside me, Callum glances over. A clinical once-over. He looks down, briefly, tracking the way I readjust my bag strap—twice—like I’m trying to find a spot that doesn’t feel like knives.
“You’re on my service this Friday,” he tells me. “Previous C-spine fusion. Limited neck mobility.”
Normally, that’d be my idea of a good time. Complex airway? Hell yes. I’d already be elbows-deep in journal articles, planning for every variable like it’s a military op.
Today, I can barely see straight. My abdomen feels like it’s trying to twist itself into an origami crane.
Still, I offer up two limp thumbs up. “Friday. Can’t wait.”
He watches me for a beat too long as my hand drifts to my abdomen before I drop it. If he notices, he doesn’t say.
Callum clicks his remote. His Audi beeps. “You alright to drive?”
“Fine,” I say.
He nods once and gets in. The engine hums to life. His headlights cut through the misty gray, and then he’s gone.
I turn toward my own car. Every step feels like walking through molasses. My limbs are lead. My insides are lava.
Just two days.
Two days of hot water bottles, a pharmacy’s worth of ibuprofen, and aggressive swearing into a pillow.
Two days for my body to get its shit together before I’m back in scrubs, back on my feet, back in the fray.
The drive home barely registers. A stitched-together blur of stoplights, rain-smeared glass, and wipers dragging like exhausted breath.
I pull off twice—side roads I don’t remember choosing—when the cramps crest so high I have no choice but to sit there, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles, forehead pressed to the vinyl.
I get home.
Just.
I manage to peel off my scrubs, trading them for a loose t-shirt and cotton shorts—anything that won’t dig into my stomach. I take my meds. Turn the heating pad on. Crawl into bed. Book in hand.
A distraction. Something to drown out the pain.
But everything is swallowed by the sharp, breath-stealing ache in my gut. I press the heating pad harder, hoping it might help. It doesn’t. Might as well be tossing water at a house fire.
Time slips. Morphs. Expands.
I lie there, staring at the ceiling. Too sore to sleep. Too tired to eat. Too drained to care about anything except how long this flare-up will last.
Then thirst hits. Sudden. Brutal. The kind that leaves my tongue glued to the roof of my mouth.
I roll onto my side, push upright—
And the room tilts.
My vision swims, black spots blooming at the edges. I grip the side of the mattress, squeezing my eyes shut, forcing a slow inhale through my nose.
After a moment, the spinning dulls, settling into something I can at least function through. I stand, wobbling for a second, but I make it upright.
And then, I glance back at the bed.
There’s blood. A dark red stain, stark against my sheets.
My stomach plummets.
How the hell—
For a split second, my brain doesn’t register it as my own. Just a stain. An abstract thing. Until the sharp, metallic smell snaps me back, and my stomach clenches.
I stare, willing it to be less than what it is. But it’s not. I’ve soaked through a pad in less than two hours.
This is bad, even for me.
I take a few shaky steps toward the bathroom, my limbs heavy, uncooperative. Mid-step, I feel it—something warm, something wet sliding down my leg.
I look down just in time to see a massive blood clot hit the floor.
Fuck.