She is just seeking attention, doctor, please don't let her dramatic episodes disrupt your triage bay, my stepmother told the ER physician as I lay bleeding onto the coastal clinic floor.
The coffee shop buzzed with early morning patrons, but I barely registered the clinking of cups or the quiet chatter. Dr. Pryor sat across from me, his usually calm expression tight with concern as he examined the yellow carbon triage sheet.
“This is Nurse Washington’s handwriting,” he murmured, tracing a finger over the detailed notes. “And the coastal attending physician’s signature. Unmistakable.”
He focused on the vital signs logged at 11:42 PM: the rapid pulse, the plummeting blood pressure, the signs of extreme blood loss. His brow furrowed.
“A Grade 3 liver laceration,” he repeated, looking up at me. “And 800 milliliters of internal bleeding documented. Maya, these blood gas analysis numbers… they cannot be simulated. No one could self-inflict this. This was genuine, severe trauma.”
My chest tightened with a mix of vindication and raw anger. Evelyn had left me to bleed, dismissing a life-threatening injury as a theatrical stunt.
Dr. Pryor took out his phone, his fingers flying across the screen. “There’s something else we can check. Those two units of O-negative blood.”
He explained that all transfused blood bags had batch numbers, logged in a centralized state inventory ledger to track supply and demand. Evelyn’s risk adjuster, Garrett Ellison, might have purged the clinic’s digital records, but an external state database was a different beast.
A few tense minutes passed. Then Dr. Pryor let out a sharp intake of breath.
“There it is,” he said, holding up his phone. “Batch numbers match. The coastal clinic logged the usage on the external state inventory. Two units of O-negative, dispensed and used on the night of your admission.”
The state inventory ledger. Evelyn’s corruption had been extensive, but not perfect. Ellison had scrubbed the local files, but he’d forgotten about the immutable state record.
This wasn’t just my word against Evelyn’s anymore. This was indisputable.
“This changes everything,” Dr. Pryor said, his voice firm. He pushed his chair back. “I’ll make some calls. This won’t go through the usual channels. We need to schedule an emergency executive session with the trust lawyers. Immediately.”
A glimmer of hope, sharp and bright, pierced through the despair I had been carrying. The paper trail, painstakingly pieced together, was finally leading somewhere.
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