He was Iron Head Graves. But now, now he was just the angry old man in room 402 with a failing liver and a septic infection in his leg from an old shrapnel wound that refused to heal. I said no. The metal tray hit the floor with a deafening clang. Three nurses stood in the hallway looking terrified. The charge nurse, a sturdy woman named Brenda, rubbed her temples.
He’s at it again. That’s the third nurse he’s kicked out this morning. He says the first one was too chatty. The second one smelled like vanilla. and the third one. I don’t even know what he said to the third one, but he left in tears. Brenda looked down at the clipboard. We’re running out of staff, people.
Who’s left? From the back of the nurse’s station, a figure stood up. She was adjusting her scrubs, her movements precise and economic. Sarah Mitchell wasn’t the type of nurse who stood out. She was 34 with dark hair, usually pulled back in a severe bun and eyes that seemed to look right through you. She rarely socialized in the breakroom.
She never talked about her weekend. She just did the work. I’ll take him, Sarah said, her voice raspy. Sarah, honey, are you sure? Brenda asked, looking concerned. Colonel Graves is particular. He has a file as thick as a phone book. He’s filed complaints against half the staff. He only respects authority, and even then, barely. I can handle authority, Sarah said.
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