The Triage

The ER was a war zone. The holidays bring out a specific brand of chaos—kitchen burns, alcohol poisoning, and heart attacks trigger-pulled by family stress. By noon, I was running on autopilot.

At 12:15 PM, my phone buzzed.
Made it to Grandma’s. Grandpa says hi. Helping with prep.

I exhaled, a knot of tension loosening in my shoulders. Maybe it would be okay. Maybe they were finally seeing her.

The afternoon blurred into a haze of sutures and IV lines. I checked my phone sporadically. The texts from Harper became shorter, the gaps between them longer.

1:30 PM: Aunt Amanda is here. She brought extra people. Colleagues of Uncle Thomas.
2:45 PM: Dinner is delayed.
3:50 PM: It’s fine. Just busy.

“Just busy.” I knew that code. It was Harper-speak for I am uncomfortable, but I don’t want to worry you.

At 5:30 PM, the ER reached critical mass. A multi-car pileup on the icy interstate brought in four trauma alerts simultaneously. I was hip-deep in chaos for ninety minutes, my phone forgotten in my locker. When the dust finally settled and the patients were stabilized, I rushed to the breakroom, needing to hear her voice.

I pulled my phone out. One new message.
Coming home. Don’t worry about me.