Story code: ST-001933
Part 1: The Triage Line
Mateo pressed his spine against the damp brick wall, clutching the oily shop rag around his right hand. The thick canvas was already soaked through, dripping a steady, dark rhythm onto the mulch beneath the overgrown holly bushes. The hydraulic steel press at the fabrication shop had taken two of his fingers and pulverized a third. Every single heartbeat sent a shockwave of blinding, white-hot agony up his forearm, radiating all the way to his jaw. He needed a trauma doctor ten minutes ago. He needed a tourniquet and heavy painkillers. Instead, he crouched in the landscaping dirt outside the Saint Jude Emergency Room, shivering violently as the shock began to set in.
The sliding glass doors of the entrance stood thirty feet away, offering a clear view into the brightly lit waiting area. It looked like absolute salvation. Then the automatic doors parted for a departing nurse, and Mateo saw the man standing by the vending machines. The tactical green uniform, the heavy duty belt, the unmistakable block letters printed across the back of the jacket. Immigration and Customs Enforcement. The agent held a steaming coffee cup, laughing with a hospital security guard, his broad shoulders completely blocking the path to the triage desk.
Mateo squeezed his eyes shut and bit down hard on his own collar to keep from screaming as another muscle spasm racked his arm. If he walked through those doors to save his hand, he would be on a deportation flight to a country he had not seen in fifteen years by morning. If he stayed in the bushes, he was going to bleed to death in the dirt. He tried to tighten the makeshift bandage with his teeth, tasting motor oil and copper. The world tilted, the sharp edges of his vision bleeding into a fuzzy, static gray.
A sharp snap of a dry branch pulled his heavy head up.
A woman in a matching velvet jogging suit had cut across the grass to reach the parking lot faster. She froze, her expensive white sneakers just inches from the edge of the mulch bed. Mateo shrank back into the deep shadows of the sharp holly leaves. He tried to look small, tried to hide the widening puddle of dark blood soaking into the woodchips beneath his knees.
He raised his good hand, palm out, offering a silent plea for her to just keep walking.
The woman did not scream. She did not rush forward to apply pressure or run inside to alert the triage nurses. Her eyes flicked from his grimy, sweat-soaked face down to the bloody rag, and her expression hardened into a mask of pure, vindictive disgust. She took a deliberate step back, maintaining a safe distance from his bleeding body, and dug into the pocket of her track pants.
She pulled out her phone.
Mateo watched in sluggish disbelief as she held the device up, the cluster of camera lenses pointed directly at his face. The red recording light blinked steadily in the twilight. He turned his face away, pressing his cheek into the rough exterior brick, but he could hear her moving on the pavement to get a better angle. She stepped right up to the edge of the bushes, making absolutely sure to capture the blood, the dirt, his desperate hiding spot. She tapped the screen with a manic, rigid intensity, her mouth set in a tight, triumphant line.
He tried to speak, tried to tell her to stop, but his throat was completely dry. The rapid blood loss was making his tongue too heavy to move. She held the phone steady for another long, agonizing ten seconds. Then, she hit a button on the screen, gave him one last look of absolute contempt, and strutted away toward a silver SUV.
Mateo slumped back down. The cold from the damp ground seeped into his bones. He checked the sliding glass doors again. The ICE agent was still there, now leaning against the glass, looking out into the darkening parking lot. Mateo had to move. He had to crawl around the back of the medical building, find a service alley, find someone who would just give him a roll of gauze without asking for a social security number.
He pushed himself up with his left arm, his heavy work boots slipping on the slick mud. He made it exactly three steps along the brick facade before the first siren wailed in the distance.
It was approaching incredibly fast.
Mateo leaned heavily against the wall, panting. A white police cruiser tore into the hospital entrance, its lightbar painting the bare trees in violent flashes of red and blue. It screeched to a halt right in front of the emergency room doors. The ICE agent inside the lobby turned, putting his coffee down on a chair.
Then came a heavier engine roar. A massive news van with a local broadcast channel logo plastered on the side jumped the concrete curb, its roof-mounted satellite mast swaying wildly as it slammed into park. Two more police cars boxed the van in, their sirens cutting off in a deafening chirp. Men and women hauling heavy shoulder cameras and carrying bright portable floodlights piled out of the vehicles, shouting directions over the noise of the idling engines. They were not looking at the ER doors. They were all pointing directly at the row of holly bushes.
Mateo stumbled backward, clutching his ruined hand to his chest, as the first blinding spotlight hit the brick wall right beside his face.
Mateo pressed his spine against the damp brick wall, clutching the oily shop rag around his right hand. The thick canvas was already soaked through, dripping a steady, dark rhythm onto the mulch beneath the overgrown holly bushes. The hydraulic steel press at the fabrication shop had taken two of his fingers and pulverized a third. Every single heartbeat sent a shockwave of blinding, white-hot agony up his forearm, radiating all the way to his jaw. He needed a trauma doctor ten minutes ago. He needed a tourniquet and heavy painkillers. Instead, he crouched in the landscaping dirt outside the Saint Jude Emergency Room, shivering violently as the shock began to set in.
The sliding glass doors of the entrance stood thirty feet away, offering a clear view into the brightly lit waiting area. It looked like absolute salvation. Then the automatic doors parted for a departing nurse, and Mateo saw the man standing by the vending machines. The tactical green uniform, the heavy duty belt, the unmistakable block letters printed across the back of the jacket. Immigration and Customs Enforcement. The agent held a steaming coffee cup, laughing with a hospital security guard, his broad shoulders completely blocking the path to the triage desk.
Mateo squeezed his eyes shut and bit down hard on his own collar to keep from screaming as another muscle spasm racked his arm. If he walked through those doors to save his hand, he would be on a deportation flight to a country he had not seen in fifteen years by morning. If he stayed in the bushes, he was going to bleed to death in the dirt. He tried to tighten the makeshift bandage with his teeth, tasting motor oil and copper. The world tilted, the sharp edges of his vision bleeding into a fuzzy, static gray.
A sharp snap of a dry branch pulled his heavy head up.
A woman in a matching velvet jogging suit had cut across the grass to reach the parking lot faster. She froze, her expensive white sneakers just inches from the edge of the mulch bed. Mateo shrank back into the deep shadows of the sharp holly leaves. He tried to look small, tried to hide the widening puddle of dark blood soaking into the woodchips beneath his knees.
He raised his good hand, palm out, offering a silent plea for her to just keep walking.
The woman did not scream. She did not rush forward to apply pressure or run inside to alert the triage nurses. Her eyes flicked from his grimy, sweat-soaked face down to the bloody rag, and her expression hardened into a mask of pure, vindictive disgust. She took a deliberate step back, maintaining a safe distance from his bleeding body, and dug into the pocket of her track pants.
She pulled out her phone.
Mateo watched in sluggish disbelief as she held the device up, the cluster of camera lenses pointed directly at his face. The red recording light blinked steadily in the twilight. He turned his face away, pressing his cheek into the rough exterior brick, but he could hear her moving on the pavement to get a better angle. She stepped right up to the edge of the bushes, making absolutely sure to capture the blood, the dirt, his desperate hiding spot. She tapped the screen with a manic, rigid intensity, her mouth set in a tight, triumphant line.
He tried to speak, tried to tell her to stop, but his throat was completely dry. The rapid blood loss was making his tongue too heavy to move. She held the phone steady for another long, agonizing ten seconds. Then, she hit a button on the screen, gave him one last look of absolute contempt, and strutted away toward a silver SUV.
Mateo slumped back down. The cold from the damp ground seeped into his bones. He checked the sliding glass doors again. The ICE agent was still there, now leaning against the glass, looking out into the darkening parking lot. Mateo had to move. He had to crawl around the back of the medical building, find a service alley, find someone who would just give him a roll of gauze without asking for a social security number.
He pushed himself up with his left arm, his heavy work boots slipping on the slick mud. He made it exactly three steps along the brick facade before the first siren wailed in the distance.
It was approaching incredibly fast.
Mateo leaned heavily against the wall, panting. A white police cruiser tore into the hospital entrance, its lightbar painting the bare trees in violent flashes of red and blue. It screeched to a halt right in front of the emergency room doors. The ICE agent inside the lobby turned, putting his coffee down on a chair.
Then came a heavier engine roar. A massive news van with a local broadcast channel logo plastered on the side jumped the concrete curb, its roof-mounted satellite mast swaying wildly as it slammed into park. Two more police cars boxed the van in, their sirens cutting off in a deafening chirp. Men and women hauling heavy shoulder cameras and carrying bright portable floodlights piled out of the vehicles, shouting directions over the noise of the idling engines. They were not looking at the ER doors. They were all pointing directly at the row of holly bushes.
Mateo stumbled backward, clutching his ruined hand to his chest, as the first blinding spotlight hit the brick wall right beside his face.