The night hung on a razorthin edge.
Emily Thatcher slipped off her navy coat, tucked it into the narrow locker and snapped the latch shut. The staff room smelled of cheap laundry soap and a whiff of bleach drifting from the adjoining bathroom. Her shift was slated to start at nine, but she had arrived early enough to change slowly and sip a steaming mug of strong black tea from a thermos. The bitter aftertaste whispered that the night would stretch long. Emily smoothed her white nightshirt beneath the gown, slipped two rubber gloves into her pocket and stepped out into the corridor of the highdependency ward.
The corridor was bathed in a dim, yellow glow, the sound of a cleaning trolleys wheels echoing off the linoleum. Beyond a tall window, lateautumn darkness lay heavy; a few streetlamps cast a thin rim of light over a crust of frozen snow. Emily nodded to the dayshift nurse, who handed her a folder of orders, the oncall anaesthetists contact, and an oldfashioned pager. Three patients for the night, all critical: check blood pressure, monitor IV drips, listen to lungs and, above all, keep everyone from slipping away.
In bay 6 lay Arthur Whitaker, seventyeight, his stomach ravaged by terminal cancer, an opioid pump humming beside him, his face as pale as plaster. The monitor traced a fragile pulse, oxygen saturation hovering around eightyfour percent. Emily dabbed a bit of water on his lips, adjusted his pillow and noted the time for the next morphine dosepain had to stay under control even in the dark hours. His breaths softened, yet a harsh wheeze still rattled between his ribs.
A door down the hall flickered with the rhythm of a young mans heart monitorNikolai Prichard, twentyfive, rushed in after a road crash. Pelvic fractures, a bruised lung, internal fixation. A catheter ran into a drain, colloids stacked on the bedside shelf. Emily checked that the urine collector wasnt overflowing, then heard a whisper:
How long have I been here?
Two days now. Everythings on schedule, just keep breathing calmly, she replied, eventoned. He closed his eyes and the nurse moved on.
Next came Violet Harper, fortythree, fresh from a suicide attempta bottle of sleeping pills and a deep well of despair. Her stomach had been washed out, her mind foggy, fresh pink bruises blooming on her wrists. She writhed under the blanket, trying to pull it off.
Violet, Im right here, Emily said, offering a watersoaked cotton ball. Your mouth is dry, lets moisten it. The womans glassy stare fixed on the ceiling, a tremor of pain flashing through the nurses mind.
It was twentythree past fifteen hundred. First entries: temperature, pressure, drip rate. From Arthurs room a coughing fit grew louder. Emily lifted his head, attached an aspirator, then slipped on the oxygen spectacles. The wheeze eased, but his fingers stayed cold and bluish.
She barely stepped out when Nikolais monitor began to shriek: saturation down to seventynine, blood pressure falling. He had rolled onto his side and twisted his oxygen tube; the drain had tugged, leaving a dark blot on the sheet. Emily repositioned him, pressed gauze to the leak, swapped the fluid bottle and entered new parameters. The frontline alarms chattered on three sides, while the hallway seemed endless.
Midnight found her poring over Violets chart: two children, a divorce in August, no prior attempts. The woman asked to use the bathroom and broke into quiet sobs afterwards. Emily helped, administered diazepam and dimmed the lights. The deep part of the shift beganthoughts stretched, legs felt as if weighed with lead.
At one oclock the heaters emitted a thin metallic whine, frost clinging to the window frame. The night nurse ran the oldmantraumasuicide routine again: change urine bags, moisturise lips, doublecheck doses. The oncall doctor descended once, glanced at the graphs, then rose again: a stroke elsewhere. The ward pulsed on green monitor lines and the faint echo of a cooling tea mug.
Three fortytwo. Simultaneously: Violets hoarse cry, a VTAC alarm over Nikolai, a long moan from Arthur. Emily slammed the general call button, the pager sprang to life. Time narrowed to a slit that had to contain three lives at once.
Rushing to Nikolai, she saw a pulse of one hundredforty and a plummeting pressure. Defibrillation was a reserve; she opted for medication first. A cabinet slammed in the corridor as Violets fixation slipped. Arthurs wheeze grew rarer. Emily hit the red emergency button, the wards lights flared, and clutching the keycard for the drug cupboard she realised there was no returning to the calm of earlier.
The urgent red glow pulsed when two members of the resuscitation teama senior anaesthetist and a paramedic with a trolleylunged to her side. Emily briefed them in a breath and followed them to Nikolai, already drawing a syringe of dopamine.
Inside, the monitor danced red and green, yet the rhythm held. While the paramedic placed an extra catheter, Emily pressed gauze to the leak and handed the doctor the syringe. Onefifty on forty, she reported. A minute later the jagged lines smoothed. The boy would pull through.
The pager buzzed: the cleaning aide couldnt cope with Violet. Emily handed the observation to the paramedic and sprinted to the third bay. The woman stood barefoot by the window, clutching a cracked bottle of saline.
Violet, look at me. Youre safe here, no one will judge you, Emily said, moving slowly, without sudden gestures. The plastic bottle clattered on the linoleum, and Violet broke into tears. Emily helped her lie down, applied fresh soft bandages, gave a minimal dose of diazepam and rang the oncall psychiatrist: an inperson review in the morning and continuous observation.
Only then did she return to Arthur Whitaker. His wheeze thickened, oxygen slipped to sixtythree percent. Morphine still lingered, but the furrow between his brows spoke of lingering pain. Emily gave a bolus, perched on a stool and took his cold hand. The hallway siren had already hushed, replaced by murmured commands, and a nearsilence settled over the ward. Arthur drew two ragged breaths and then fell still. Time of death: four zero five. She cut the oxygen, tucked the sheet around his chin.
The paramedic entered, helped turn off the machines and left to file paperwork. Patient saved, patient stabilised, patient departed without a scream, Emily thought, tallying the nights ledger in her mind.
Nearly five oclock. Through a grimy pane, the predawn blue seeped in. Emily gathered used gloves, flushed Nikolais drain, changed the bloodstained sheet. The boy breathed more evenly.
Stable. Well do a scan in the morning and, if all looks right, move him to the general ward, she told him. He gave a faint nod.
Violets breathing evened out. Emily placed a folding chair by her bedside the cleaning aide would stay on watch. She entered in the notes: High risk of repeat selfharm; 24hour observation; psychologist consult; safety plan enacted.
Half past six, the oncall doctor descended again, this time unhurried. Emily handed him the oral report and the procedure log. He checked the deathtime entry, nodded and signed the forms.
By eight, the dayshift nurse and the hospital porter arrived. Emily showed them the fresh dressings on Nikolai, the analgesic schedule, the observation protocol for Violet. Then they cleared Arthurs room, closed his eyes and prepared his body for transfer.
The computers entry fields trembled under reluctant fingers: Violet Harperclear consciousness, denies negative thoughts; Nikolai Prichardhaemodynamics stabilised; Arthur Whitakerdeceased, pain controlled. Emily added, Nursing observation fully covered, and pressed Save.
The staff room still smelled of the same detergent, now buzzing with morning chatter. The nurse slipped off her gown, buttoned her coat neatly, and set the pager on its chargerthe long beep sounded like a quiet farewell.
Outside, a light dusting of snow filled the gaps between the paving stones. Emily inhaled the cold air, feeling her breath steam, and smiled involuntarily. A spare tea bag rustled in her pocketfor the next shift. Cars hurried past, and she allowed herself a halfminute of peace before stepping toward the bus stop. The night had ended, and somehow she had made it through.
