Chapter 11
The RN didn't leave my bedside. That was the first thing I noticed. She pulled the rolling stool closer with her foot and reached for the phone on the wall instead of walking away.
My blanket was still up to my chest and the cannula hissed soft against my nose. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead and the red EMERGENCY sign glowed behind the glass doors. I could hear my own breathing.
She pressed speaker and kept her voice low. Her white-gloved left hand stayed on the rail near my wristband, so I knew she wasn't going anywhere.
"This is Jen, ER Bay Two," she said. "I need a live verification, no transfer if we can help it. Can you check a unit reference for me? Three-thirteen. Base housing, building three, unit one-three. Possible environmental exposure, pediatric patient."
A voice crackled on the other end, a woman from charge or social work. "Jen, you want housing or social work to roll?"
"Both if you can," the RN said. "But start with housing maintenance on speaker. Child gave us a repeated signal, three-one-three, plus finger counts. We have a rash, respiratory component. We need eyes on the unit before we push anything new. I'm holding meds pending allergy verification."
The man in the Navy camouflage by the doors shifted his weight. He'd been quiet since the doctors argued, his hands at his sides. Now he took a half step forward.
"I can go check it," he said. His voice was flat and helpful, the way grown-ups sound when they want to fix something fast. "I have base access. I know that complex. Let me run over, I'll call you from the unit. Faster than waiting on housing."
The RN didn't look away from me when she answered. Her eyes stayed on my face.
"No," she said. "I appreciate it, but I need you to stay here. If housing goes, it's documented. Chain of custody matters. And she needs her people in one place."
I felt my shoulders drop a little because she said no for me. My two fingers were still curled under the blanket edge and I didn't have to hold them up anymore. She believed me, and she wasn't trading me for speed.
The doctor holding the white and blue medication box exhaled and set the box down on the tray instead of opening it. The other doctor glanced at the first, then at my wrist.
"We'll hold pending verification and a band check," the second doctor said. "Jen, you want to read the allergy band out loud? Chart says no known allergies but this rash - we should confirm with family before anything goes in."
The RN nodded and gently lifted my right wrist where the white band sat. "Can you confirm her name and date of birth for me, sweetheart?" she asked the older woman in the dark cardigan behind my bed.
The older woman leaned in, her hand on my shoulder. "She hasn't had medicine allergies before," she whispered. "No, never."
It was the braided girl who spoke next. She'd been standing behind the bed the whole time, twisting the end of her braid, eyes big. When she heard the numbers the RN said — building three, unit one-three — her face changed.
"That's our building," she said. Her voice was small and then faster. "Three-thirteen is next to us. Three-twelve is us. The vent in the bathroom has black stuff. Mom said not to touch it. It smells weird when the heat comes on. My sister coughs at night."
The room went still except for the monitors. The RN kept the phone on speaker so the woman on the other end heard it too.
"Did you hear that, charge?" the RN asked quietly. "Minor witness confirms adjacent unit, possible mold in vent, odor with heat, nighttime cough. That's our hazard flag."
"Copy," the voice on the phone said. "I'm logging it. Social work is listening on the other line. We're dispatching housing to three-thirteen and three-twelve for a welfare check. No one enters alone, they take photos. We'll call back to this bay."
The Navy man stepped back toward the doors again, his jaw tight. He didn't argue after the RN's no. He folded his arms and looked at the red sign above him like it could do something.
The doctor with the medication box pushed it further to the edge of the tray. "Box stays closed," he said to the other doctor. "We chart held for environmental verification and family report of mold exposure. No dose until callback or attending override."
I stared at the light blue blanket and felt the air from the cannula cool my lip. The RN finally let go of the bed rail and brushed my hair back with her ungloved hand. Her RN badge caught the light.
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"We're going to wait right here," she told me, not the room. "You did your job. Now we let them do theirs. You don't have to hold the numbers anymore unless you want to."
I didn't lift my fingers. I just breathed and looked at her messy bun and the stethoscope around her neck, and listened to the phone line hum while someone far away walked toward building three to see if what I'd been trying to say was true.
