III
1081 Words
By 7:30a.m the next morning, the trauma bay smells like antiseptic and burnt coffee, like it always does. Fluorescent lights hum overhead. Monitors beep in steady, mechanical rhythm. The world is functioning as if nothing happened.
As if a man with blood pouring from his ribs hadn’t locked eyes with her less than twelve hours ago.
As if she hadn’t stitched him back together with her pulse steady and her mind spiraling.
Zariah ties the strings of her navy-blue scrubs tighter at her waist and forces herself to move through her checklist. Vitals. Chart updates. Supply restock. She keeps her hands busy because idle hands make room for memory.
And she does not have room for memory today.
Not his voice.
Not the weight of his stare.
Not the name he gave her.
Six.
The only thing she knows about him.
At 9:15 a.m, the charge nurse touches her elbow gently.
“Zariah. Two officers up front asking for you.”
Of course they are.
Her expression doesn’t change. She nods once and removes her gloves.
“I’ll be right there.”
The walk to the administrative office feels longer than usual. Every footstep echoes. Her mind runs through protocol automatically.
Gunshot wound. Uncooperative patient. Left against medical advice.
No ID provided.
No insurance on file.
No fingerprints taken.
No name beyond what he chose to offer.
Six.
Inside the small office sit two uniformed officers. Mid-thirties. Clean-shaven. Alert but not aggressive.
One of them stands when she enters.
“Ms. Cole?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Officer Ramirez. This is Officer Holt. We’re following up on a gunshot victim admitted late last night.”
Her pulse remains steady. Years of practice.
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you mind walking us through what happened?”
She folds her hands loosely in front of her. Calm. Professional.
“He was brought in by an unidentified driver around 12:47 a.m. Single gunshot wound to the left thoracic region. Entry wound only, no exit. He was conscious, oriented, and refused to provide legal identification.”
Ramirez scribbles notes.
“Did he say how it happened?”
“No.”
“Did he appear affiliated with any known group?”
“I’m a nurse, Officer. Not a detective.”
Holt studies her carefully.
“Was he armed?”
There it is.
“No,” she says evenly. “He had no sort of weapon on him.”
Ramirez flips a page in his notebook.
“Did he threaten you?”
A brief pause.
Images flash — the syringe pointed to her throat, his eyes sharp despite blood loss.
“Yes.”
“With the firearm?”
“No. With a syringe.”
Both officers look up.
“A syringe?” Holt repeats.
“Yes. He removed it from the tray and warned me not to call the police.”
“Did you?”
She meets their eyes.
“No.”
A beat of silence hangs in the room.
Ramirez exhales lightly through his nose.
“Why not?”
“Because if I had, he would have bled out on my table.”
And because she saw something in his face that didn’t look like random violence.
But she doesn’t say that part.
Holt leans back in his chair.
“And he left on his own?”
“Yes. Against medical advice. Approximately 2:32 a.m.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“No.”
“Did he mention anyone’s name? Any associates?”
“No.”
Another silence. Assessing. Measuring.
Finally, Ramirez nods.
“If he comes back, or if you remember anything else, call this number.”
He slides a card across the desk.
She takes it.
“I will.”
They stand. Thank her. Leave.
The door shuts softly behind them.
Zariah releases a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
Her hands are steady.
But her chest feels tight.
She goes back to work.
Because that’s what she does.
She functions.
By early afternoon, exhaustion starts creeping into her bones. The kind that isn’t from lack of sleep but from holding tension too long.
She’s charting at the nurses’ station when she notices them.
Two men.
Not in uniform.
Not hospital staff.
Wrong energy.
One tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a charcoal suit that doesn’t fit the neighborhood. The other shorter, compact, eyes too sharp for casual curiosity.
They approach the desk like they own the floor.
“Excuse me,” the taller one says smoothly. “We’re looking for Nurse Cole.”
Her coworkers glance at her.
Zariah doesn’t hesitate.
“That’s me.”
The shorter man smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“We’d like a moment of your time.”
“For what purpose?”
They exchange a quick glance.
“Regarding a patient you treated last night.”
Her pulse skips once.
She keeps her face neutral.
“And you are?”
The tall one steps slightly closer.
“Just concerned parties.”
Concerned parties.
She almost laughs.
“I’m going to need something more official than that.”
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
“We’re not law enforcement.”
“I gathered.”
“Then you understand this can be handled quietly.”
Her gaze sharpens.
“If you’re not law enforcement and you’re asking about a patient, then you should also understand I can’t legally discuss anything without proper identification and authorization.”
The shorter man studies her more closely now.
“You’re a smart woman.”
“I try to be.”
The tall one reaches into his jacket pocket.
For half a second her muscles tense.
He pulls out nothing.
Just adjusts his lapel.
A tactic.
Testing her reaction.
“We don’t want any trouble,” he says smoothly. “We just need to know where he went.”
“I don’t know,” she replies evenly. “And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you without credentials.”
“Credentials can be arranged.”
“Then arrange them.”
The shorter man’s smile fades completely.
They stand there for a moment longer, weighing her.
Measuring whether intimidation will work.
It doesn’t.
Finally, the tall one nods slightly.
“Thank you for your time, Nurse Cole.”
They turn and walk away.
Her coworkers stare.
“Who were they?” one whispers.
“I don’t know,” Zariah answers honestly.
But her stomach is in knots.
Because she does know one thing.
They weren’t cops.
And they weren’t friends.
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