I was fired at 2 a.m. and started walking home—then two helicopters landed, and someone yelled, “Where is the nurse?”
Night shift strips everything to truth.
At 2 a.m., St. Jude’s was frozen in silence. A man appeared—no name, no wallet, high fever, a deliberate-looking wound. Administration saw a problem. I saw a patient. I treated him.
Dr. Alcott ordered a transfer, ignoring the risk. Fifteen minutes, or I was done. I pulled the curtain, gave the meds, stayed with him. Fever dropped.
Then the curtain flew open. Security. Administrators. Badge removed. Box in hand. “Leave.”
Cold rain. Five miles home. I kept walking.
Then the sky exploded. Two helicopters. Cars stopped. Phones out. An officer ran to me:
“Are you Nurse Bennett? The man you treated woke up. He won’t let anyone touch him unless you’re there.”
Suddenly, I understood—the patient wasn’t just a John Doe. And Alcott was about to find out who he’d crossed.