@thehxtshxt
The dull ache that had started in Roe’s feet has progressed up to his calves, and his shoulders feel so tight he fears that if he dares even turn his head too quickly, he’s going to pull a muscle. Desperately gripping the silver lining of the situation, he finds that the pain is an effective grounding tool. In particular, the chaffing of a blister on his right heel sends subtle pulses of agitation through his body every couple of moments that, along with his overall discomfort, keep him alert enough to continue on, lest exhaustion fully take hold and he give in to the temptation of falling asleep on the next gurney he sees.
He probably should have gone home hours ago. But, in the moment, it had made such sense to volunteer himself to stay. The hospital staff had been spread thin after the bombing, and there were so many people eager to get back to their spouses, children, or even pets. Roe, having none of these things he would have felt guilty asking another to work in his place. He does still have his wits about him, enough that he’s decided to remove himself from directly seeing patients right now and instead cover some of the nursing rounds, checking in on patients for the night. He doesn’t usually get to see much outside of the bustling emergency room, and if it were under better circumstances it would have been pleased to have an excuse to visit one of the other floors.
It’s late, and the hospital has dropped down into the state of hushed and subtle productivity, Roe having had to do little more than administer some pain medication or promise to pass along hypochaondric concerns to a patient’s regular nurse when they return. He’s doing last minute checks through the rooms when he’s momentarily startled by an unexpected figure poised near one of the patient’s beds. “I’m sorry, but we don’t actually allow visitors into patient’s rooms this late. I’m going to have to ask you to come back tomorrow.”
