Chapter 9
They moved me after the sun went down. I didn't walk. A nurse pushed the bed and the wheels clicked over every seam in the floor. The emergency bay got smaller behind us and then it was gone.
My name is still the same kid from that exam bed. I was still wearing the gray t-shirt, just pulled straight now, and the gauze was taped back lightly over my arm so the purple wouldn't show unless someone looked.
The new room was on the third floor. It didn't have the frosted sliding door. It had a regular white door with a handle and a small window in it, and the walls were still white tile but there was a curtain with little airplanes on it they pulled halfway around the bed. The light was warmer, not the buzzing fluorescent from downstairs. A machine beside me beeped slow and then a nurse in navy scrubs reached over and turned it off.
"We're going to take these off, okay?" she said. She had short blonde hair and a badge that said M. Rivera, RN. "You don't need the monitors anymore. Your heart looks good."
She peeled the stickers off my chest one by one. They pulled at the skin and I breathed through it. She wrapped the blood pressure cuff around my arm — not the sore one — and it squeezed tight and released.
"One hundred over sixty-two," she said, writing it down. "You're doing great. Temp's normal." She smiled and it was a small, tired smile, like she'd been there for hours.
I kept looking at the door. The window in it was clear glass, and the hallway light made a rectangle on the floor. Every time someone walked past, their shadow cut through that rectangle for a second.
I held my breath without meaning to. My hand found my chest again, fingers bunching the gray shirt the same way I had downstairs.
Ms. Rivera noticed. She didn't say anything about it at first. She just tucked the blanket around my legs.
"You can keep the blanket however you want," she said. "If you get cold, press this button and I'll come."
I nodded. My throat was dry.
About twenty minutes later there were footsteps that stopped outside my door. I sat straight up. My chest got tight and I didn't breathe at all. The shadow filled the little window for a second — broad shoulders, same shape as the silhouette behind the frosted glass — and my hand locked harder on my shirt.
It was a man with a food tray. He knocked once and left it on the table without coming in. Ms. Rivera came in right after and saw my face.
"Hey," she said quietly. "That was just dinner. Nobody comes in here without me knowing. Okay?"
I let out the breath I'd been holding. It came out shaky.
The door clicked shut behind her and I stared at it, waiting for the handle to move.
Later the surgeon came in. He wasn't in the bright blue scrubs anymore. He wore the same scrubs but he'd taken the gloves off and his hair looked like he'd run his hands through it. He still had the stethoscope around his neck.
He pulled the little chair up next to the bed, not too close.
"Hey, buddy," he said. "How's the arm feeling?"
I shrugged. "Okay."
He glanced at the gauze, then at my face. "I wanted to check on you before I head home. The night nurse — Ms. Rivera — she's right outside that door all night. And I need you to hear this from me: he cannot come in this room without staff right here with him. Not tonight. Not without us. That's the rule we put in place. You understand?"
I looked at the door's handle, then at him.
"So it's locked?" I asked. My voice was small.
"It's watched," he said. "If anyone tries to come in, the nurses stop them. If you feel scared, you press the button and Ms. Rivera comes right away. You don't have to watch the door by yourself anymore."
I wanted to believe him. I nodded, but my eyes went back to the window. He didn't tell me I was being dramatic. He just sat there a second longer, breathing slow, like he wanted me to match him.
"Try to sleep if you can," he said. "I'll see you in the morning."
After he left, Ms. Rivera dimmed the lights so only a soft glow came from over the bed. She left the bathroom light on a little so the room wasn't dark. I lay on my back and stared at the ceiling tiles. The hallway was quiet except for carts rolling and a baby crying far away.
I fell asleep and woke up. I don't know how long I was out — maybe an hour. The room was the same, the airplane curtain half-closed, the door still shut. My heart was beating fast and my shirt was twisted in my hand again.
"Ms. Rivera?" I called out, and my voice cracked.
She was there in ten seconds. She didn't turn the big light on.
"I'm here," she said. "You're safe."
"Is the door locked?" I asked.
She checked the handle, even though I saw her check it. She turned it and it stayed shut. "It's closed and I'm right here. No one came in. Do you want some water?"
I nodded. She poured it and handed me the cup. My hand shook a little. I drank and lay back down.
May you like
I slept in pieces after that. I'd drift for a few minutes and then a hallway noise would snap me awake and I'd check the window. Each time the rectangle of light was empty, and each time Ms. Rivera's shoes squeaked past or her voice came low from the nurses' station, and I remembered what the surgeon said — he cannot come in without staff — and I let my hand loosen from my chest just enough to breathe again.
Around three in the morning I woke again and didn't call out. I just watched the door. It stayed closed. The light stayed steady. Nobody's shadow filled it. For the first time that night, I stayed awake for a minute on purpose, watching the empty window, realizing nothing was going to happen. I pulled the blanket up and my breathing got slower on its own. I fell back asleep with my hand resting open on the blanket instead of clutching my shirt.
