Disclaimer: Grace is my character, but as for the rest, I don't own them. I just have fun with them.
******************************************
It was late morning when the fifth-floor nurses called to say they needed Grace's help with a John Doe ... yes, it had to be right now, no, it couldn't wait till after lunch. Hanging up the phone, Grace sighed. She'd been at the hospital since dawn, consoling a distraught family; annual budgets were due today, and of course she hasn't eaten breakfast. Her head ached, her stomach rumbled. What was the rush? John Doe wasn't going to get any more anonymous if she took five minutes to grab some vending machine junk, she thought miserably. Still, she went straight to the fifth floor, because that was the kind of thing a hospital chaplain did these days, after the Pulse, with no money for luxuries like social workers.
Nobody was at the nurses' station. Sounds of commotion came from a nearby room, where a patient was apparently in a full-blown screaming rage. This wasn't unusual. The fifth floor took in the crazy, the drugged, and the drunk of the city. After a moment the door banged open and a nurse leaned out into the hallway, searching frantically through a supply cart. Noise poured into the hall. An orderly paged Security.
Grace shouted over the din, "So what's the deal?"
The nurse was exasperated. "If I had time to figure that out, would I be calling you?" She glared over her shoulder at Grace, pointing to a nearby room. "No ID. Incoherent, but not drunk. Or drugged."
"Crazy?"
"Could be."
"Is he awake now?"
"Not last I checked."
"And you expect me to get a phone number out of him ... how?"
The orderly winked at Grace over the telephone. "Aw, go on in there. He may be mental, but he's clean. And hot too, if you get my meaning."
The nurse snorted. "Don't get your hopes up, honey. This one's got a boyfriend. Keeps calling for some guy, Mack or Sam or something like that." She disappeared back into the screamer's room and the orderly began to argue into the telephone. With a sigh Grace pushed open the door of John Doe's room.
After a moment she felt slightly ashamed of her impatience, and not just because he actually was very good-looking. Someone or something had hit him hard, that much was plain from the dark purple bruise and stitched cut on his right cheek. He was restless, mumbling a name. When she spoke quietly, he did not respond.
Though she wasn't supposed to, she flipped through his chart. Interesting. Apparently this wasn't Mr. Doe's first misadventure. Extensive post-surgical scarring on the back, lower extremities unresponsive to stimuli, all indicating pre-existing severe neurological injury. Car wreck? Gunshot? Grace set the chart down and moved closer to the bedside. People banged up like this tended to have unsavory pasts, but this guy just didn't have a street look, even in his current condition. A pair of glasses lay on the beside table. Bent and scratched, yes, but expensive. No, he wasn't a street guy. Psych problems, then. Off his meds? Family frantically combing the city for him? It happened all the time.
The closet held the clothes he'd been wearing when he was brought in, but the pockets were empty. When she turned back to the bed, his eyes were open and he was watching her. Keeping her distance from the bed, she spoke softly, cautiously. "Hey. You're in Metro Medical. My name is Grace, I work here." He said nothing, so she continued, "You came in without ID, so we haven't been able to contact anyone. Is there someone I can call for you?"
He started to speak, cleared his throat, tried again. "Where's my ..." He groped around the bed and Grace slowly moved closer, handing him the glasses and then a cup of water. After a sip he was able to ask, "Where are my clothes?" He seemed fairly well oriented, Grace thought. She relaxed a bit, though she still didn't quite get what was going on here. Awake, he didn't seem much like a psych patient. She handed him the clothes from the closet and he went through the pockets quickly, then tossed them aside, obviously disappointed, and turned his face toward the window.
"How are you feeling?" she asked.
He didn't answer. "Were you here when I was brought in? Was anything else found with me? A phone, anything?" he asked impatiently.
"No, I wasn't here. As far as I know, this is it. Do you remember what happened to you?"
Again, he did not answer her. "Nobody found a ... a leg brace, or something like that?"
"I'll ask, but right now I need to tell the nurses you're awake. So, is there someone I can call for you?"
"Uh, yeah. Sure.". He took the pen and paper Grace offered, quickly scrawled something, then lay back and closed his eyes. Clearly he was hoping she would go away. No doubt he'd be alert the moment the door closed behind her. Well, it wasn't like he could even get out of the bed, not with those legs, but for some reason she lingered in the hallway, watching the room until she saw one of the nurses enter.
She was relieved. As long as someone answered the call she was about to make, this would all be over in five more minutes. Not a bad outcome. Other than the ugly bruise and a few missing possessions, he'd been lucky. Unlike the typical fifth-floor customer, he even had a friend to call. Probably the boyfriend, Grace decided. Looked like the nurse had been right about that one, except he hadn't been calling for Sam. He'd been calling for Max. The boyfriend's name was Max.
******************************************
It was late morning when the fifth-floor nurses called to say they needed Grace's help with a John Doe ... yes, it had to be right now, no, it couldn't wait till after lunch. Hanging up the phone, Grace sighed. She'd been at the hospital since dawn, consoling a distraught family; annual budgets were due today, and of course she hasn't eaten breakfast. Her head ached, her stomach rumbled. What was the rush? John Doe wasn't going to get any more anonymous if she took five minutes to grab some vending machine junk, she thought miserably. Still, she went straight to the fifth floor, because that was the kind of thing a hospital chaplain did these days, after the Pulse, with no money for luxuries like social workers.
Nobody was at the nurses' station. Sounds of commotion came from a nearby room, where a patient was apparently in a full-blown screaming rage. This wasn't unusual. The fifth floor took in the crazy, the drugged, and the drunk of the city. After a moment the door banged open and a nurse leaned out into the hallway, searching frantically through a supply cart. Noise poured into the hall. An orderly paged Security.
Grace shouted over the din, "So what's the deal?"
The nurse was exasperated. "If I had time to figure that out, would I be calling you?" She glared over her shoulder at Grace, pointing to a nearby room. "No ID. Incoherent, but not drunk. Or drugged."
"Crazy?"
"Could be."
"Is he awake now?"
"Not last I checked."
"And you expect me to get a phone number out of him ... how?"
The orderly winked at Grace over the telephone. "Aw, go on in there. He may be mental, but he's clean. And hot too, if you get my meaning."
The nurse snorted. "Don't get your hopes up, honey. This one's got a boyfriend. Keeps calling for some guy, Mack or Sam or something like that." She disappeared back into the screamer's room and the orderly began to argue into the telephone. With a sigh Grace pushed open the door of John Doe's room.
After a moment she felt slightly ashamed of her impatience, and not just because he actually was very good-looking. Someone or something had hit him hard, that much was plain from the dark purple bruise and stitched cut on his right cheek. He was restless, mumbling a name. When she spoke quietly, he did not respond.
Though she wasn't supposed to, she flipped through his chart. Interesting. Apparently this wasn't Mr. Doe's first misadventure. Extensive post-surgical scarring on the back, lower extremities unresponsive to stimuli, all indicating pre-existing severe neurological injury. Car wreck? Gunshot? Grace set the chart down and moved closer to the bedside. People banged up like this tended to have unsavory pasts, but this guy just didn't have a street look, even in his current condition. A pair of glasses lay on the beside table. Bent and scratched, yes, but expensive. No, he wasn't a street guy. Psych problems, then. Off his meds? Family frantically combing the city for him? It happened all the time.
The closet held the clothes he'd been wearing when he was brought in, but the pockets were empty. When she turned back to the bed, his eyes were open and he was watching her. Keeping her distance from the bed, she spoke softly, cautiously. "Hey. You're in Metro Medical. My name is Grace, I work here." He said nothing, so she continued, "You came in without ID, so we haven't been able to contact anyone. Is there someone I can call for you?"
He started to speak, cleared his throat, tried again. "Where's my ..." He groped around the bed and Grace slowly moved closer, handing him the glasses and then a cup of water. After a sip he was able to ask, "Where are my clothes?" He seemed fairly well oriented, Grace thought. She relaxed a bit, though she still didn't quite get what was going on here. Awake, he didn't seem much like a psych patient. She handed him the clothes from the closet and he went through the pockets quickly, then tossed them aside, obviously disappointed, and turned his face toward the window.
"How are you feeling?" she asked.
He didn't answer. "Were you here when I was brought in? Was anything else found with me? A phone, anything?" he asked impatiently.
"No, I wasn't here. As far as I know, this is it. Do you remember what happened to you?"
Again, he did not answer her. "Nobody found a ... a leg brace, or something like that?"
"I'll ask, but right now I need to tell the nurses you're awake. So, is there someone I can call for you?"
"Uh, yeah. Sure.". He took the pen and paper Grace offered, quickly scrawled something, then lay back and closed his eyes. Clearly he was hoping she would go away. No doubt he'd be alert the moment the door closed behind her. Well, it wasn't like he could even get out of the bed, not with those legs, but for some reason she lingered in the hallway, watching the room until she saw one of the nurses enter.
She was relieved. As long as someone answered the call she was about to make, this would all be over in five more minutes. Not a bad outcome. Other than the ugly bruise and a few missing possessions, he'd been lucky. Unlike the typical fifth-floor customer, he even had a friend to call. Probably the boyfriend, Grace decided. Looked like the nurse had been right about that one, except he hadn't been calling for Sam. He'd been calling for Max. The boyfriend's name was Max.