Tiny Girl Handed Mafia Boss Bloody Tissue 'This Is From Mommy's Nose, Daddy Did It'—He Stood Up

Tiny Girl Handed Mafia Boss Bloody Tissue 'This Is From Mommy's Nose, Daddy Did It'—He Stood Up

The fluorescent lights of Metro General Hospital's emergency department buzz overhead like angry wasps as I rush through the double doors at six forty-seven in the morning, already seventeen minutes late for my shift. My scrubs are still damp from the broken pipe in my apartment building's hallway, my sneakers squeak against the linoleum, and the coffee I didn't have time to drink sits cold in a travel mug stuffed into my oversized purse.
"Nurse Torres, a word." Charge Nurse Patricia Davidson's voice cuts through the organized chaos of shift change like a scalpel through skin.
My stomach drops. I can't afford another write-up. Three more minutes and I would've made it.
"I know, I'm sorry, the bus—"
Patricia holds up one perfectly manicured hand, her expression softer than I expected. "Room twelve needs a bilingual nurse. Patient's daughter only speaks Spanish, and the little one won't let anyone near him. You're up."
Relief washes through me so suddenly my knees weaken. Not a reprimand. Just another impossible situation in a hospital that's chronically understaffed and overwhelmed.
"On it," I say, already moving toward the nurses' station to grab the chart.
Room twelve. Pediatric case. Seven-year-old male, possible concussion, lacerations requiring sutures, presented with extreme anxiety and selective mutism. Father present but non-communicative. Sister, age four, only Spanish speaker, highly protective of patient.
I knock softly before entering, my hand already reaching for the small bag of stickers I keep in my pocket for the scared kids. The room is dim, curtains drawn against the harsh morning sun trying to break through Chicago's perpetual cloud cover.
The little boy sits on the exam table, his dark eyes huge in a pale face, a butterfly bandage holding together a cut above his left eyebrow. Blood has dried in rusty streaks down the side of his face, staining the collar of his expensive-looking button-down shirt. His small hands grip the edge of the table so tightly his knuckles have gone white.
Beside him stands a tiny girl in a navy dress with white flowers, her black curls contained in two perfect braids tied with ribbons that match her outfit exactly. She positions herself between me and the boy like a miniature soldier, her chin lifted in defiance, her eyes— the same dark, intelligent eyes as her brother—tracking my every movement.