Shifting uncomfortably in the hard plastic seat he had been perched on for the past few hours, Mark found himself questioning the intellect of both the chair's designer and that of whoever had deemed it necessary to persecute the hospital's many patients and their relatives yet further with the unyielding grey moulded monstrosities that masqueraded as waiting-room furniture. Bad enough as it was that for whatever reason a visit to the hospital was necessary, to be forced to endure more than five minutes in such a device would, Mark was convinced, be in contravention of the human rights act.
Mark glanced at Amanda and found, with no great surprise, that she too was suspended on the edge of the chair, her head resting downcast in her hands as she jiggled her legs convulsively.
The drive to the hospital had passed in a blur of superficially cheerful banter, the youthful police officer who had arrived through the ocean mist seeming to believe that even a moment's silence was to be avoided at all costs.
They had arrived at the hospital soaked to the skin and shivering with cold, shot through with anticipation at what was awaiting them.
Much to the officer's annoyance, Mark and Amanda had disregarded him totally, winding their way through the maze of corridors that lined the labyrinthine hospital, seeking out the colleagues they were certain would be able to provide them with some much sought after answers.
Coming to the ER they had found no trace of Jesse or Steve and a worrying lack of staff presence.
At the first glimpse of blue scrubs Amanda had literally accosted the doctor who had the misfortune to cross her path, a bewildered plastic surgeon who had been called on the assess a burns' patient.
Finding that no information was forthcoming they had continued to prowl the department, finding at last a young nurse who despite her dogged refusal to make eye contact, had informed them gently that Jesse had been taken to theatre.
In the time that had passed Mark and Amanda had scarcely moved from their seats outside the operating theatre, flitting between moments of exhaustion that no amount of sitting in the plastic chairs could ease and restless tension that saw them pacing anxiously up and down the corridor.
Anxiety swelling in him yet again, Mark stood slowly from his seat feeling every muscle objecting to the movement and began to pace.
He had been to see Steve briefly after they had arrived at the hospital. Saw to it that he was comfortable, but despite knowing that he was safely confined to a hospital bed where he would undoubtedly be well taken care of, Mark could not ignore the guilt that his place should be at his son's side rather than here, outside an operating theatre where he could do nothing but wait.
Sinking back into the plastic chair Mark soughed in exhausted frustration. He glanced briefly again at Amanda and their gaze met briefly. She did not speak, but offered a commiserative smile before returning her head to her hands.
"This is ridiculous!" Mark sprang to his feet, angrily tugging at his damp jacket as he did so.
"What on earth is taking so long? I don't know what…"
Mark broke off as one of the double doors behind him swung open, a man clad in blue scrubs emerging from within.
"Alex!"
The man looked mildly surprised at the greeting he received, but composed himself at once.
"Mark, Amanda." Dr. Alex Bedwin inclined his head in acknowledgement, pulling the papery blue cap from his head as he so.
"Well?" The question was short and overtly demanding of a response, but Dr. Bedwin did not blanch at the unusual brusqueness of his colleague's interrogation.
"He's alive."
Mark exhaled deeply, physically wilting as relief flooded through him.
"How bad is it?"
Dr. Bedwin contemplated his words for a moment, but knew that to sugar-coat them would be a wasted effort.
"Dr. Travis… Jesse… is being taken to recovery."
Amanda twitched, her eyes flicking toward the end of the corridor where a sign clearly signalled the relatives' entrance to the recovery room.
"There was a single knife wound to the upper left quadrant of the torso that penetrated approximately six inches into the abdominal cavity. The spleen was perforated and the blade caused a moderate laceration to the left lobe of the liver. Now, we've tied off the bleeds and packed the belly but I'm afraid the extent of blood loss and hypothermia had already led to a dangerous level of metabolic acidosis."
"Have you got him on phosphodiesterase inhibitors?" Mark interjected, frowning at what he was hearing.
"Dobutamine. 650mg in 250ml normal saline. Jesse's sats are up to 96."
"What about the coagulopathy?"
"Intravenous crystalloid, cryoprecipitate and plasma. His BP is stable, but Mark… I don't need to tell you how serious Jesse's condition is."
Mark nodded bleakly, his gaze never wavering from his colleague's grim face.
"We'll re-operate in the twenty-four hours assuming…"
Amanda flinched, and casting a reproachful glare at Dr. Bedwin she strode past him and Mark and made her way up the corridor.
Mark made to follow, then faltered.
"Alex… thank you."
Dr. Bedwin nodded a solemn dismissal, and Mark turned to pursue Amanda.
The recovery room was kitted out much like an ICU, sparsely furnished yet seeming strangely congested with the machines and wires that crowded around each of the room's two occupants.
An unearthly stillness choked the atmosphere, hanging like a solid barrier to anything that might otherwise dare to disturb the patients.
Amanda's presence at the side of one of the beds immediately signified Jesse's location in the room, but Mark hesitated in joining her side. He glanced around, his gaze coming to rest on the face of the only other occupied bed, and blenched.
A sickeningly familiar face rested against the soft white pillows, a mess of greasy hair casting a filthy contrast to the stark cleanliness of the surrounding room. Mark was not sure why he was surprised – logic should have told him that the man, whoever he was, would inevitably be brought to surgery, and in turn, the recovery room. But seeing him there, seemingly resting so peacefully… it galled Mark more than he could have expected.
Dragging his gaze away from the gaunt, papery façade of the man Mark took in the cluster of bandages that wound their way about his body and allowed his eyes to come to a rest on the man's hands which were bound in two heavy leather cuffs to the side rails of the bed.
Satisfied that the threat of danger had receded for the first time in many hours, Mark retreated from the man's bed and turned his attention where he knew it was better placed: Jesse.
Mark's immediate reaction was to cast a scrutinizing gaze over Jesse, and for perhaps the first time in his life Mark found that he somewhat resented the extent of his medical knowledge.
The monitors showed an array of coloured lines progressing across the screens in an assortment of peaks and waves, and whilst Mark was relieved no end that there was activity to be measured, the display did nothing to alleviate his concern for his young friend.
Jesse, his skin grey beneath the mass of purple bruising that marred his usually vibrant face, lay completely motionless. His lips, dry and cracked, were parted slightly by the ventilation tube that protruded from his mouth and a band of violent contusions formed exquisite patterns around his throat where he had been seized in a strangler's grip.
Tearing his eyes away from Jesse's pale face Mark shook himself. He had seen people enter the ER in conditions similar to those of Jesse's and knew of outcomes both agonizingly tragic and mercifully gracious. He prayed for the latter.
Overcome by a sudden upsurge of fatigue Mark looked around for somewhere he might rest his aching legs, and spotting yet more of the formidable plastic chairs, retrieved two for himself and Amanda.
Time, despite being proclaimed as constant, seemed to be behaving quite wantonly to Amanda. The period spent outside the operating room had passed like an age, each and every second dragging in blatant disregard for Amanda's desire for the wait to be over, and now here in the recovery room the minutes were crawling by and racing in equal turns.
Jesse, she knew, would not waken. His chart, which she had perused with the keen eye her training afforded her, informed her that Jesse was to be kept sedated. Whilst Amanda knew this to be necessary, both for Jesse's recovery and as a means by which he be spared the suffering that would inevitably greet him when he woke, she wanted nothing more than to see his blue eyes sparkling; clear, free from pain, alive.
The sound of a commotion coming from outside the room seemed oddly loud and disconnected with the quiet and solemnity of the room's interior, and both Mark and Amanda turned in their seats, craning their heads to seek the source of the noise.
"I'm sorry, but you can't go in there!"
"Just try and stop me"
The second voice rang stridently through the air and Mark clearly recognised it to be his son.
"If you don't calm down sir, I will have to call security."
"Get out of the way!"
The recovery room door burst open and Mark caught sight of Steve attempting to disentangle himself from the grasp of a burly male nurse whom Mark knew to be far softer in demeanour than his robust appearance implied.
"Steve!" Mark jumped to his feet and strode into the fray, attempting to separate the two men.
"No! Steve," Mark pulled at the nurse's thick arm, "He's my son."
At these words the man immediately released his grip and straightened, looking ruffled.
The nurse glared at Steve who glared right back, a look of annoyance on his face stubborn face.
"You keep a hold of your boy Dr. Sloan, he's gonna get himself in trouble."
Mark took Steve's arm and positioned himself between the two.
"I can assure you that there will be no more trouble, thank you."
The nurse eyed Steve for a moment longer, then nodding a sceptical acquiescence, he turned and left.
"Come on" Maintaining a firm grip on Steve's arm, Mark led him out of the room.
As the door swung closed behind them Steve instantly shrugged his father's arm from his own, pulling himself away and scowling deeply.
"Don't apologise for me." Steve snapped, obviously irritated.
"I didn't!" Mark countered, taken aback by his son's accusatory glare.
"Oh forget it," Steve snapped again, sounding remarkably like a cantankerous teenager. He made to stalk past his father, but staggered slightly as he did so, being forced to reach out and steady himself against the wall.
Steve was silent for a moment. When he spoke next his voice was far softer.
"How is he?"
Mark hesitated in answering; half wishing that Amanda were present to interject and save him the chore of having to impart the knowledge he had of Jesse's condition. Knowing he was just delaying the inevitable however, he drew a breath and began to talk.
Whilst he was fairly convinced that his feet were placed firmly on the ground, Steve felt as if he were swaying where he stood. His head pounded and he wondered briefly if he dared to open his mouth for fear of being sick. The questions and concerns that resonated through his mind were overwhelming however, and Steve knew that the crescendo of pain would only continue to swell until he voiced them.
"How long is Jesse going to need the ventilator? What about the hypothermia? I thought you said it would help. That it would stop the blood loss? And now you're saying that it might kill him? We could have done something to warm him up, we could have stop this from ever happening!"
As Steve spoke his voice increased in volume and he gesticulated wildly with his left arm, leaning heavily against the wall in an attempt to maintain his balance as he continued to shout.
"Will you be quiet!" Mark barked, angry at his son's accusations and defensive of their accuracy. Added in to this mix was a fair degree of concern – Steve's pallor was tinged green and he was beaded with sweat.
"Please Steve," Mark implored, "Please don't be angry with me. I'm too tired and this isn't helping anyone, least of all Jesse."
Something in Mark's tone cut through Steve's anger at once and he visibly slumped, looking younger and smaller than he had in many years. Unexpectedly Steve careened forwards and fastened his father in a clumsy embrace, unwittingly clubbing him around the head with his cast in doing so. Mark however, content in the warmth his son was now demonstrating, said nothing of the dull ache throbbing in his temple.
"Steve…"
"No, don't Dad." Steve said, releasing his father and standing back shakily. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be blaming you, none of this is your fault, it's just… everything that's happened? You know?" Steve raised his arm to signify his broken wrist.
Mark tried not to, but smiled.
"What?" Steve looked confused.
Mark hesitated in responding, stepping to one side in the corridor to allow a young nurse to pass. She smiled appraisingly at Steve.
"Uh, your robe…" Mark said in an undertone, motioning to the white hospital-issue gown Steve was wearing.
"Wha…" He stopped mid-sentence, suddenly aware of the cool air brushing against his exposed skin and the cords of his robe hanging loosely down his bare calves. With a mortified glance back at the smiling nurse, Steve blushed.