Chapter Four Hailey #2
Marco’s eyebrows shoot up. “How the hell would he know that?”
“I have no idea.”
“Social media?” Marco suggests. “Is your profile public?”
I shake my head. “No, private. And I post under a different name, anyway.” A precaution I took years ago after watching a patient obsess over a coworker.
Marco’s expression hardens. “I’m calling security to stand by, and I’m telling Dr. Chen. You’re not going back in there alone.”
“I can handle it,” I protest. I’m grateful for how seriously he’s taking this, but being competent at my job means being able to handle shit like this.
“It’s not up for debate,” he says, already reaching for his phone. “New protocol, remember? After the Jensen incident last month.”
The Jensen incident.
A patient followed a surgical resident to her car after being discharged. Thankfully, the situation didn’t escalate beyond that, but it was enough to prompt new security measures. And scare the shit out of the resident.
Dr. Chen arrives minutes later, her small frame radiating professionalism and authority. She listens to me without interrupting, nodding each time I pause for a breath.
“I’ll handle Mr. Winters,” she says when I finish. “And I’m noting this in his file. If he comes back, we’ll need to discuss a care plan that involves minimal contact with female staff.”
“He’s probably just fishing,” I say, not entirely believing it. “Trying to establish a personal connection to manipulate me into giving him what he wants.”
“Possibly,” Dr. Chen agrees. “But we’re not taking chances. And Marco’s right—you don’t go back in there alone. Understood?”
I nod in agreement, thankful for coworkers who look out for one another.
Security arrives. Frank knows most of the regular patients by name. He positions himself near bed three as Dr. Chen disappears behind the curtain. I hear her crisp, confident voice explaining a treatment plan that doesn’t include narcotics.
I use that moment to step into the break room, needing a minute to reset. I was feeling so good about tonight before Winters came in. How can one person mess me up so much, so quickly? I shouldn’t let anyone make me feel like they have any power over me.
But Winters knowing about my personal life has rattled me to my core.
I take another deep breath, ignoring the way it shudders as I exhale.
The clock on the wall reads 2:17 a.m. Less than four hours left in my shift.
“Rough night?” Rachel is at the table, picking at a sad-looking salad while she takes a brief break. She’s been a night shift nurse since before I first started here. During my first year of residency, she took special care to show me the ropes, and now I can’t imagine my life without her.
“Just the usual,” I say, heading for the coffee pot. “Winters is back.”
“Again? That guy needs a hobby that isn’t harassing healthcare workers.” She stabs a piece of wilted lettuce with way too much force. “Or a one-way ticket to another hospital.”
“He knows Chewy’s name,” I tell her, the coffee forgotten as I sigh and sink into a chair opposite her.
Rachel’s fork freezes halfway to her mouth. “That’s…concerning.”
“Yeah.” I rub my eyes, suddenly tired and crashing. “Frank’s involved now.”
“Good.” She puts down her fork. “You need to be careful, Hailey. Remember that surgical resident last month?”
“I know, I know.” I wave off her concern, though it echoes my own unease. “I’m always careful.”
And I am.
My social media accounts are anonymous and private. I don’t wear a name badge outside the hospital. I don’t discuss my personal life with patients. I observe all the precautions healthcare workers—especially women healthcare workers—are drilled to observe.
“You staying at your place tonight?” Rachel asks. “Because you know my couch is always open if you’re spooked.”
I consider it for a moment, then shake my head. “I’ll be fine. He’s probably just trying to score drugs.”
Rachel looks unconvinced, but before she can argue, Marco appears in the doorway.
“Winters is gone,” he says. “Dr. Chen discharged him with a referral to pain management. Frank walked him to his car and waited outside until he left the premises.”
The tension in my shoulders eases slightly. “Thanks, Marco.”
“Don’t thank me yet. We’ve got three new arrivals from a bar fight, and bed four is threatening to leave if he doesn’t get seen in the next ten minutes.” He gestures to the door. “Break time’s over, folks.”
Rachel groans but closes her salad container. As we head back to the floor, she gives my arm a quick squeeze. “Seriously, call me if you need anything. Even if you just have a weird feeling.”
“I will,” I promise, though we both know I probably won’t. I’ve spent too long being overly independent to reach out, even to my best friend, unless shit hits the fan.
The rest of my shift passes in the controlled chaos typical of an ER at night.
The bar fight patients require stitches and X-rays, an elderly woman comes in with pneumonia, a college student arrives with a severe allergic reaction to something he took at a party.
By the time six a.m. rolls around, my encounter with Winters has been pushed to the back of my mind.
My worry starts to feel like paranoia in the bright morning light filtering through the windows.
The ER always looks less threatening during the day.
Being here for the night shift can leave me with a case of doom and gloom at the end of my shift.
I resolve not to let thoughts of Lars Winters take up any more space in my head.
The early morning air is crisp as I exit through the staff doors, the sky beyond the parking garage just beginning to lighten.
It’s quiet, with most of the day shift still arriving.
I scan the area automatically, a habit formed over years of leaving work at odd hours.
Nothing seems out of place. No lurking figures, no idling cars with engines running. Just the usual morning stillness.
I reach my car—a black mid-size SUV that handles Colorado’s winter roads with ease—and unlock it with the key fob.
As I buckle my seat belt, I catch myself checking the back seat before starting the engine.
Another habit, this one learned from my mother, who worked a lot of night shifts in the Army.
The drive home is peaceful, the streets mostly empty.
My apartment is only fifteen minutes from the hospital—a proximity I value on mornings like this, when I’m too mentally exhausted to make a longer drive.
As I navigate the familiar route, I find my mind drifting to my plans for the day: sleep for as long as I can, then see if Rachel wants to get coffee.
It’s only as I’m unlocking my apartment door that my unease returns.
Something Winters said nags at me. Not just Chewy’s name, but his insistence that I’d mentioned my pet to him before. The deliberate lie.
I push the door open and am immediately greeted by Chewy’s soft chittering sounds. He’s awake and eager for some love after an entire night alone. I scoop him up, his long furry body wiggling with excitement as he nuzzles my neck.
“Hey, buddy,” I murmur, carrying him to the couch. “Did you have a quiet night? Better than mine, I hope.”
As I sit there, stroking his soft fur, I find myself glancing at the windows, checking that the blinds are fully closed.
I think about Rachel’s offer of her couch and dismiss it again.
This is my home. I won’t be driven out by vague anxiety over some drug-seeking patient who probably overheard me talking to another staff member about Chewy during one of his previous visits.
Still, as I head to bed, the sun now fully risen, I double-check the locks on my door and windows. Just to be safe.
Just in case.
Because the thing about working in an emergency room is that you see, firsthand, how quickly ordinary days can turn disastrous.
How thin the membrane is between safety and danger.
How easily it can rupture.
It’s not paranoia if the precautions make sense. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I finally drift off to sleep, Chewy curled in a warm ball at my neck, the sound of his soft breathing a comforting reminder that I’m not alone.