Deep Trauma

Twenty minutes later, Riley was back in the throes of the buzzing ER.

An inexplicable weight pressed down on her all morning. There was little comfort in having made her case at M and M. She didn’t feel exonerated. She felt used. Jackson had unfairly put her in a position where she’d been forced to expose the disastrous incompetence of a colleague. That wasn’t her job. Nothing felt good about that. And she hadn’t simply been an instrument of truth—she’d been a hapless pawn in a needless tragedy.

By late afternoon, there was a slight reprieve in the flow of patients. Riley made a fresh pot of coffee, poured herself a cup, and headed up to the nursery to see Sofia’s baby. The infant was making good progress according to the charge nurse on duty, who allowed Riley access to the viewing window.

“I hope you don’t mind keeping it brief, Dr. Brighton. We have strict orders not to let anyone from the media know the baby is still here. So please keep it under wraps. Social service is looking to find placement if family isn’t located soon,” the woman said, standing next to Riley with her arms crossed over her chest.

“She’s so tiny,” Riley commented, her voice barely audible. “Delicate, the way her mother was.”

She heard Valerie’s words again: “You don’t have children? You’re lucky, Doctor. There is nothing—nothing—worse than losing a child.”

Riley felt her throat tightening again.

She thanked the nurse and headed to the elevator, rounding the corner from the nursery and passing by the general surgical ward. A young man in a patient gown was propelling himself with tattooed arms down the hallway in a wheelchair alongside her, perhaps headed to the gift shop or, more likely, to an exit to smoke.

“First floor?” she asked, holding the elevator door for him.

“Yeah,” he said, giving her a long look. “Wait, I know you. I know that voice.” Riley gave him a double take. She couldn’t place him. But that was understandable with all the patients she encountered daily. “It’s me—Miguel,” he insisted. Riley smiled politely, shaking her head. “You know, from last week? The super-tall dude said you saved my life when I got capped. I remember your voice. You told me I was gonna be okay,” he said, a smile spreading over his face. “And you were right. I owe you one, Doc.”

Riley couldn’t help herself; in a second, she was grinning from ear to ear. “Oh boy, you look great—you look really great, Miguel. I’m so glad to see that.”

“I mean it, Doc. You need anything on the streets—ever—me and my homies, we got your back.”