She picked up the fresh dressing kit and the tray of antibiotics. Does he need his morphine? He refuses to take it. Brenda sighed. says it dulls his senses. He’s sitting in there with level eight pain just gritting his teeth. Sarah nodded. I’ll see what I can do. As Sarah walked down the corridor, the lenolium squeaking softly under her sneakers, she checked the patient file one last time.
Silus Graves, USMC Rhett, Operation Phantom Fury, Operation Enduring Freedom, Silver Star, Two Purple Hearts. She stopped at the door of room 402. She didn’t knock. In her experience, men like graves didn’t appreciate the courtesy of a knock. They appreciated presence. She pushed the door open. The room was dim. The blinds were drawn tight against the gray afternoon.
The smell of antiseptic and old sweat hung heavy in the air. Sitting on the edge of the bed, not lying down, was silus graves. He was shirtless, revealing a torso that looked like a road map of violence. Burned scars, bullet grazes, and the deep puckered crater on his right thigh where the sepsis was setting in.
He looked up his eyes like two chips of flint. “Who are you?” he growled. “It wasn’t a question, it was a challenge. I’m Sarah. I’m your nurse for the night shift.” “Sarah,” he mocked, spitting the name out like a curse. “I don’t need a Sarah. I need a doctor. Or better yet, I need a coreman who knows how to wrap a leg without cutting off the damn circulation.
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