The Night Shift
The cacophony of St. Jude’s Emergency Ward was a language I’d spoken fluently for five years. The rhythmic beep of monitors, the frantic scuff of rubber soles on linoleum, the metallic tang of antiseptic—these were the constants of my night shifts as a senior trauma nurse.
I’d witnessed life flickering out like a dying candle a thousand times. I believed I was bulletproof, that I’d seen every horror the ER could offer. I was wrong.
“Code Blue, Emergency Room. Multi-vehicle collision, three victims incoming. ETA: two minutes.”
My body moved on autopilot.
I adjusted my mask, felt the familiar pull of my gloves, took my position near Trauma Bay Four. Around me, the team assembled with practiced efficiency. Dr.
David Chen barked orders. Lisa, my closest friend among the nursing staff, checked the crash cart. The resident physicians lined up, faces set with grim determination.
This was routine. We’d done this dance hundreds of times. Then the automatic doors hissed open, and the world I had built collapsed in an instant.
The first stretcher carried a man whose face was a mask of pulverized glass and crimson. For a moment, my brain refused to process what my eyes were seeing. Then recognition hit like a physical blow.
Mark. My husband. The man who, three hours ago, had kissed my forehead and promised to tuck our son in before bed.
The paramedic’s voice cut through my shock. “Male, mid-thirties, severe head trauma, unconscious at scene, no pulse for four minutes—”
I couldn’t hear the rest. My vision tunneled.
My hands went numb. The second stretcher followed—a woman, her body twisted at an unnatural angle, blonde hair matted with oil and blood. The emergency lighting caught her face, and I saw the familiar slope of her nose, the small scar above her eyebrow from when we were kids and she fell off her bike.
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