I barely have a chance to hang up my coat before a rushed ER doctor hands me a patient file to input in the computer. Opening the folder, I skip to the page detailing the patient's injuries. Car crash: multiple hemorrhages, broken ribs, cracked skull, possible brain trauma. Shuddering, I pull out the drivers license and my heart jumps into my throat. Marcia Jones, 5'9", blue eyes, organ donor. My sister.
Glancing at her room number, I pocket her license and dash down the hall to the elevator, pounding on the UP button until the doors slide open and then close behind me. The sound of my tapping foot echoes off the elevator walls and drowns out the Muzak. It seems like an eternity before the doors ding open again. I squeeze through their small gap before they can open fully and weave my way through the people walking down the corridor.
Her room door is ajar, but the lights are off. I cautiously push it open and take a moment to let my eyes adjust to the darkness. When they do, I gasp and
Add Media
Style