Chapter Four Hailey
The scent of antiseptic never quite leaves my skin. No matter how many times I shower or scrub myself raw, it lingers—a permanent reminder of the twelve hours I spend in the ER three nights a week. It’s become such a part of me that I barely notice it anymore.
“Incoming trauma, five minutes out!” Marco, the charge nurse, calls out as he hangs up the phone. “MVA, single patient, mid-thirties male with possible head and chest injuries.”
I’m already moving, abandoning the chart I was updating. The movement of the emergency room is pure chaos to the untrained eye, but it’s artfully choreographed to those who know it intimately. Urgent yet precise, we all know exactly how to hit our marks.
“I’ve got it,” I say, heading for the trauma bay. Dr. Reyes, my attending physician, is right behind me, rattling off preparation orders.
“Let’s get a trauma panel ready. CBC, chemistries, CMP, type and cross for four units.”
I nod, already mentally checking through the checklist. Despite the calm in my movements, my heart rate picks up.
This is the rush that keeps me coming back—the knowledge that the next few minutes might mean the difference between life and death for whoever is about to be rolled through those doors.
The privilege and burden of that responsibility never gets old.
“You seem weirdly happy tonight,” Dr. Reyes comments, her dark eyes narrowing as she watches me prepare the trauma bay.
“Just hitting my stride,” I reply, not slowing down. “Hour eight is when it all clicks.”
She rolls her eyes but smiles. “You’re a strange one. Most of us are mainlining coffee by hour eight.”
“If you pre-gamed your coffee with a Red Bull at hour four, like me,” I say, grinning as I pull gloves from the dispenser, “you’d never have a chance to crash.”
The truth is, I am happy.
There’s something about the night shift that suits me—the intensity, the camaraderie, the shared sense of purpose while the rest of the world sleeps. During the day, I’m just another person shuffling through life. Here, in the ER, I’m exactly who I’m meant to be.
EMTs burst through the ambulance bay doors, wheeling in a bloody man on a gurney.
“Matt Monroe, thirty-six, vehicle rolled down an embankment. GCS 14, pressure stable at 130/82, heart rate elevated at 135. Possible pneumothorax on the right side, decreased breath sounds, and contusions to the chest from the steering wheel. He’s got a laceration to the forehead but pupils are equal and reactive. ”
I move in harmony with the team as we transfer the patient from the gurney to our bed. He’s conscious but dazed, blood matting his blond hair against his forehead.
“Mr. Monroe, you’re at Fort Collins Memorial Hospital,” I tell him, leaning into his field of vision as I attach cardiac monitoring leads to his chest. “I’m Dr. Brigham. We’re going to take good care of you, okay?”
“My wife,” he mumbles, fighting against us as he tries to sit up. “She was in the passenger seat…”
“Mr. Monroe, I need you to lie down,” I say, gently but firmly pressing his shoulders back. Looking toward the EMTs for answers, I ask, “Was there a second patient?”
“No, he was alone in the vehicle,” the EMT responds, a look of pity on his face.
I exchange glances with Dr. Reyes. This isn’t uncommon in head injuries—confusion, sometimes even full-blown confabulation.
“Mr. Monroe, you were alone in the car,” I explain, keeping my voice calm and clear as I cut away the rest of his shirt to assess his injuries. The bruising across his right side is already developing, a violent palette of reds and purples. “Can you tell me what day it is?”
His brow furrows. “Tuesday? No, Wednesday. It’s Wednesday.”
“You were so close.” I smile. “But today is actually Thursday. And can you tell me who the president is?”
He gives me an incorrect answer as I continue the immediate neurological check, while Dr. Reyes listens to his chest through her stethoscope.
The way she and I move in sync sparks an unexpected reminder of Cole. How effortlessly we worked side by side, thriving off each other’s energy. And then my mind drifts further, to how intensely his hazel eyes watched me before we parted ways.
A chill runs down my spine, and I shake my head, forcing myself back into the present. I don’t have time to think about him right now, especially when it’s so unlikely I’ll ever see him again.
“Definite decreased breath sounds on the right,” she confirms. “Let’s get a chest tube prepped and rush that X-ray.”
The next forty-five minutes blur into a familiar cascade of procedures, assessments, and interventions.
The chest tube releases trapped air with a satisfying whoosh, improving Mr. Monroe’s oxygen levels almost immediately.
The head CT comes back remarkably clean—no obvious bleeds or fractures.
By the time we transfer him to the surgical floor for observation, the patient is stable, oriented, and apologizing for the confusion about his nonexistent wife.
“Nice work in there,” Dr. Reyes says as we’re updating our charts later on. “You were good with him.”
“Thanks,” I reply, feeling the post-adrenaline crash beginning to work its way into my muscles. “He was lucky. One more rotation on that rollover and we’d be having an entirely different conversation.”
“That’s the job,” she says with a nonchalant shrug. “Sometimes all we can do is hope like hell we can pull them back.”
Her pager beeps. She checks it, grimacing when she sees the code. “Speaking of disaster, your favorite patient is back.”
I don’t need to ask who she’s referring to. “Third time this week?”
“Fourth. Apparently the new security protocols didn’t stick.” She gives me a sympathetic grimace. “I’d take it myself, but—”
“No, I’ve got it,” I say, straightening my scrubs. “It’s fine.”
It isn’t fine, but it’s my job.
I find Lars Winters in bed three, already shouting at a young nursing assistant who’s trying to take his vital signs. He’s a frequent flyer on the hunt for pain meds, and he’s quick to get aggressive—verbally and physically.
And he only wants me to take care of him.
“I told you I don’t need that shit! Where’s the blonde? The one who understands my condition!”
Zoe, a new nursing assistant still learning the ropes, gives me a desperate look as I approach. There’s a slight tremble in her hands.
“I’ve got this,” I tell her quietly. “Go help Marco with an intake in six.”
She nods gratefully and retreats without a word. I straighten myself and step up to the bedside, making sure to stay just out of grabbing distance. I learned my lesson after his second visit.
“Mr. Winters,” I say, keeping my voice neutral but polite. “I understand you’re in pain again.”
Lars Winters is fifty-two, ashen-faced, and reed-thin, with the hollow-eyed look of someone who’s been riding the opioid carousel for a while. His file lists a back injury from three years ago, but every scan we’ve done shows nothing that would cause the level of pain he claims to experience.
“Dr. Brigham,” he says, voice instantly switching to what I easily recognize as false relief. “Thank God you’re here. These other idiots don’t understand. My pain is at a ten—no, an eleven. I can barely breathe through it. You’ve got to give me something.”
He’s predictably dramatic as he speaks, his movements showing none of the body language I’d expect from someone in even the slightest bit of pain.
“We’ll do an exam,” I tell him, “but I need to remind you about the conversation we had last time you were here. Dr. Chen was very clear about the pain management plan.”
His face darkens before I’ve even finished my sentence. “That bitch doesn’t know anything. I need Dilaudid. Now.”
“We’ll be following the plan,” I say firmly, reaching for the blood pressure cuff. “Which starts with a full assessment. I need to take your vitals, and then we’ll go from there.”
“Don’t fucking touch me unless you’re giving me what I need!” He slaps my hand away, the contact leaving a small but sharp pain on my skin.
I take a step back, maintaining eye contact. “Mr. Winters, I understand you’re frustrated, but if you refuse an examination, I can’t help you. And if you become aggressive with staff again, security will be called. Violence of any kind will not be tolerated here.”
The mention of security makes his eyes dart between me and the door. He’s been escorted out twice previously.
“Fine,” he mutters, thrusting his arm out for the blood pressure cuff. “But tell Dr. Chen I’m not leaving until someone takes my pain seriously.”
I proceed cautiously, noting vitals that are textbook normal for someone supposedly in agony.
“How’s Chewy?” he asks during a quiet moment when I’m charting his vitals.
I freeze, my fingers hovering over the computer mouse. I know I’ve never mentioned my pet ferret to this man.
“Who?” I keep my voice steady, careful to mask the uneasiness dripping down my spine like hot wax.
“Your ferret. Chewy? You told me about him a while back, remember?” he asks, but his eyes don’t quite meet mine. A patient coughs in the bed on the other side of the curtain, the sound unnaturally loud in the sudden silence.
Lars Winters knows something about me that he shouldn’t.
He knows it. I know it.
What happens next is entirely up to me.
I am sure beyond the shadow of a doubt that I have never discussed my personal life with this patient—or any other. It’s a boundary I maintain vigilantly, but especially with those who set off blazing alarm bells in my head the way Lars Winters does.
“Mr. Winters, I need to consult with my attending about your treatment plan,” I say, taking another step back from the bed. “I’ll be back shortly.”
I walk out of the curtained area with measured steps, fighting the urge to look over my shoulder. Once I’m around the corner, I lean against the wall, clutching my chest and inhaling a deep breath.
“You okay, Hailey?” Marco asks, appearing out of nowhere with his uncanny timing. “Winters giving you trouble again?”
“He knows my ferret’s name,” I whisper, the words sounding strange even as I say them.