At the Lincoln Memorial Hospital, Marcia and Grace, two receptionists, were sat behind a large wooden counter. There wasn't as much security as they'd like, but the hospital management had decided that removing the glass screens made them more friendly and welcoming, so there they were, exposed to the public like a pair of matching statues with corporate uniforms and matching platinum blonde hairstyles. Every day, they dealt with insect bites, young children with bumps and scrapes from the school yard, seniors who had fallen, victims of crime and numerous automobile accidents. Nothing surprised them any more. Both women were also aware of at least three unusual uses for a kitchen whisk. They had a good supply of pens, charts and Kleenex for weeping relatives, and a button to call security in case anything untoward happened. When Robert Morris charged towards them and knocked on their desks, they weren't expecting anything they hadn't seen a million times before. He was just another upset relative after information. They simultaneously reached for the Kleenex in preparation. "Was there an accident reported earlier this evening? At the toll bridge?", he asked. "Actually, yes", Marcia replied. "A young woman was brought in. Is she a relative?". Robert couldn't quite believe his luck, nor could he believe his scruples for what he was about to do. "Sure…I mean, yes!", he answered. Grace raised an eyebrow. Marcia picked up her phone. "Grace, inform Doctor Murphy that Jane Doe's got a visitor, tell him to get the operating theatre prepared. I'll take the young man along to see the doctor."
Doctor Murphy met Robert at the entrance to the Intensive Care ward. Murphy was a well respected surgeon, with experience in general surgery, psychiatric medicine and a brief but terrifying spell in pediatrics which he used to explain his slightly greying hair. He escorted Robert to a private, glass fronted room, where a badly injured woman, covered almost from head to toe in bandages, was lying in a hospital bed. Robert suspected that even if he had known her, she would still be described as unrecognisable. "Is this your relative?" Murphy asked. "She's in a critical condition; she's sustained a serious head injury. The doctors can't operate on her until someone can sign the consent forms". Robert took a second to think about the consequences of what he was about to do. It wasn't too late to say "No, there's been a terrible mistake", apologise, and leave. But instead, he found himself saying "Her name's Caitlin Morris. That's my wife in there". Doctor Murphy sighed with relief. "Come with me, Mr Morris. We have to get the treatment consent papers signed, and you can give us some information to help us locate her records". Robert allowed the doctor to lead him to the office, taking one last look at the poor, anonymous woman, and sending her a mental apology for what he was about to do.