Story code: ST-000261
Part 1: The Waiting Room
Silas measured the linoleum floor of the consultation room in exactly four heavy strides, spinning on his heel just before his boots scuffed the baseboard. Down the hall, behind a set of frosted double doors, his teenage daughter was bleeding out on a trauma bay table. The man currently trying to stop that bleeding was Dr. Elias Vance, the chief trauma surgeon and the exact person who had spent the last eighteen months lobbying the county board to revoke the zoning permits for Silas’s shooting range.
Silas paced back toward the glass wall of the room, his breathing shallow and tight. He rubbed a rough hand over his face, feeling the grit of gunpowder and dirt still clinging to his jawline. His daughter, Harper, had just dropped right there on the firing line less than an hour ago. One second she was loading magazines at the wooden bench, and the next she was a crumpled heap on the gravel, pale and completely unresponsive. Silas had carried her to the truck himself, ignoring safety protocol, and drove ninety miles an hour all the way to the emergency room entrance.
He figured it had to be a ruptured appendix or a sudden internal hemorrhage, maybe a severe ovarian cyst. There was a terrifying amount of blood soaking through the denim of her jeans by the time he got her through the electronic sliding doors. The thought that it might have been a freak ricochet had crossed his mind, a catastrophic accident at the dirt berm, though he ran the safest facility in the state. Whatever the cause, it was an absolute medical nightmare, and Vance was the man in charge.
Silas stared through the horizontal plastic blinds, glaring at the swinging doors of Trauma Room One. He hated Vance. They had stood on opposite sides of town hall podiums, shouting at each other for months about noise ordinances and public safety. Now Vance was the one holding the scalpel over Harper. Silas felt entirely useless trapped inside the tiny family waiting area, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the back of a squeaky vinyl chair. He needed to be in that room, standing over the table, making sure his political enemy was doing everything possible to save his little girl.
A heavy set of footsteps echoed down the main corridor, breaking Silas from his fierce fixation on the surgical bay. He shifted his gaze down the hallway. Sheriff Hank Miller was walking past the triage desk, his heavy-duty leather belt creaking with every measured step. Hank was a good man, a fixture at the gun shop, and a regular at Silas’s weekend barbecues. The sheriff held an aluminum clipboard in his left hand, his expression set in a grim, professional line. Hank scanned the crowded waiting area, clearly looking for Silas.
Seeing his friend brought a sudden, crashing wave of relief to Silas. Hank would get real answers. Hank could walk right past the nurses and demand a status update on Harper straight from Vance, bypassing all the hospital red tape. Silas stepped toward the consultation room door, reaching out to turn the brass handle and wave the sheriff over.
The frosted double doors of the trauma bay crashed open, bouncing hard against their hinges.
Dr. Vance burst into the hallway, pulling off a pair of blood-stained latex gloves. His light blue scrubs were dark with heavy wet patches. Vance looked up and spotted Sheriff Miller approaching from the far end of the corridor. The doctor completely froze in his tracks, his eyes widening in a sudden flash of outright panic. He dropped the ruined gloves into a nearby biohazard bin, but instead of walking toward the nurses’ station to update the chart, Vance spun on his heel and rushed directly toward the family consultation room.
Silas barely had time to register the frantic movement before Vance shoved his way inside. The doctor pushed past Silas, grabbed the heavy wooden door, and slammed it shut with shocking force. The sharp click of the deadbolt locking echoed loudly in the small, enclosed space.
Silas took a deep breath to demand an explanation, stepping aggressively toward the shorter man. Vance did not even look at him. The doctor reached for the control rod on the window blinds and twisted it violently, snapping the plastic slats shut and cutting off their view of the hallway just as Sheriff Miller’s tan uniform came into the frame of the glass.
Vance backed away from the door, his chest heaving, his bare hands trembling. He held up an index finger to his lips, demanding absolute silence from Silas.
A cold knot formed in Silas’s stomach. The doctor was not acting like a medical professional who had just repaired a ruptured appendix or dug out a rogue piece of shrapnel from a target-shooting accident. He looked exactly like a man cornered by the authorities.
The heavy thud of knuckles hitting the wooden door rattled the metal hinges.
Hank called out from the other side, his voice muffled through the solid core wood but entirely firm. He stated he needed a word with the attending physician about the young woman brought in from the gun range.
Vance kept his trembling finger pressed to his lips, staring at the locked door with wide, terrified eyes. Silas took a deliberate step forward to unlock the deadbolt, fully intending to let his trusted friend into the room.
Vance grabbed Silas by the forearm, digging his fingers painfully into the muscle, and shook his head in a violent, desperate negative.
Silas measured the linoleum floor of the consultation room in exactly four heavy strides, spinning on his heel just before his boots scuffed the baseboard. Down the hall, behind a set of frosted double doors, his teenage daughter was bleeding out on a trauma bay table. The man currently trying to stop that bleeding was Dr. Elias Vance, the chief trauma surgeon and the exact person who had spent the last eighteen months lobbying the county board to revoke the zoning permits for Silas’s shooting range.
Silas paced back toward the glass wall of the room, his breathing shallow and tight. He rubbed a rough hand over his face, feeling the grit of gunpowder and dirt still clinging to his jawline. His daughter, Harper, had just dropped right there on the firing line less than an hour ago. One second she was loading magazines at the wooden bench, and the next she was a crumpled heap on the gravel, pale and completely unresponsive. Silas had carried her to the truck himself, ignoring safety protocol, and drove ninety miles an hour all the way to the emergency room entrance.
He figured it had to be a ruptured appendix or a sudden internal hemorrhage, maybe a severe ovarian cyst. There was a terrifying amount of blood soaking through the denim of her jeans by the time he got her through the electronic sliding doors. The thought that it might have been a freak ricochet had crossed his mind, a catastrophic accident at the dirt berm, though he ran the safest facility in the state. Whatever the cause, it was an absolute medical nightmare, and Vance was the man in charge.
Silas stared through the horizontal plastic blinds, glaring at the swinging doors of Trauma Room One. He hated Vance. They had stood on opposite sides of town hall podiums, shouting at each other for months about noise ordinances and public safety. Now Vance was the one holding the scalpel over Harper. Silas felt entirely useless trapped inside the tiny family waiting area, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the back of a squeaky vinyl chair. He needed to be in that room, standing over the table, making sure his political enemy was doing everything possible to save his little girl.
A heavy set of footsteps echoed down the main corridor, breaking Silas from his fierce fixation on the surgical bay. He shifted his gaze down the hallway. Sheriff Hank Miller was walking past the triage desk, his heavy-duty leather belt creaking with every measured step. Hank was a good man, a fixture at the gun shop, and a regular at Silas’s weekend barbecues. The sheriff held an aluminum clipboard in his left hand, his expression set in a grim, professional line. Hank scanned the crowded waiting area, clearly looking for Silas.
Seeing his friend brought a sudden, crashing wave of relief to Silas. Hank would get real answers. Hank could walk right past the nurses and demand a status update on Harper straight from Vance, bypassing all the hospital red tape. Silas stepped toward the consultation room door, reaching out to turn the brass handle and wave the sheriff over.
The frosted double doors of the trauma bay crashed open, bouncing hard against their hinges.
Dr. Vance burst into the hallway, pulling off a pair of blood-stained latex gloves. His light blue scrubs were dark with heavy wet patches. Vance looked up and spotted Sheriff Miller approaching from the far end of the corridor. The doctor completely froze in his tracks, his eyes widening in a sudden flash of outright panic. He dropped the ruined gloves into a nearby biohazard bin, but instead of walking toward the nurses’ station to update the chart, Vance spun on his heel and rushed directly toward the family consultation room.
Silas barely had time to register the frantic movement before Vance shoved his way inside. The doctor pushed past Silas, grabbed the heavy wooden door, and slammed it shut with shocking force. The sharp click of the deadbolt locking echoed loudly in the small, enclosed space.
Silas took a deep breath to demand an explanation, stepping aggressively toward the shorter man. Vance did not even look at him. The doctor reached for the control rod on the window blinds and twisted it violently, snapping the plastic slats shut and cutting off their view of the hallway just as Sheriff Miller’s tan uniform came into the frame of the glass.
Vance backed away from the door, his chest heaving, his bare hands trembling. He held up an index finger to his lips, demanding absolute silence from Silas.
A cold knot formed in Silas’s stomach. The doctor was not acting like a medical professional who had just repaired a ruptured appendix or dug out a rogue piece of shrapnel from a target-shooting accident. He looked exactly like a man cornered by the authorities.
The heavy thud of knuckles hitting the wooden door rattled the metal hinges.
Hank called out from the other side, his voice muffled through the solid core wood but entirely firm. He stated he needed a word with the attending physician about the young woman brought in from the gun range.
Vance kept his trembling finger pressed to his lips, staring at the locked door with wide, terrified eyes. Silas took a deliberate step forward to unlock the deadbolt, fully intending to let his trusted friend into the room.
Vance grabbed Silas by the forearm, digging his fingers painfully into the muscle, and shook his head in a violent, desperate negative.