My nine-year-old patient’s stepfather dragged him into the ER by the wrist, demanded antibiotics, and said, “He’s not worth missing a shift over.”
Then I touched the boy’s swollen face—and something beneath his skin pushed back against my glove.
The man stopped breathing.
So did I.
It was 3:14 in the morning, the hour when an emergency department can feel both completely awake and strangely separate from the rest of the world.
Rain tapped against the ambulance doors outside our coastal Oregon hospital, steady enough that every person who came through the entrance carried some part of the weather in with them.
Wet footprints crossed the waiting room tile.
A crooked stack of magazines sagged beside triage.
Someone had abandoned a paper coffee cup on a side table, and whatever had been inside it was long past warm.
That was when Greg came through the doors with Leo.
