Chapter Text
There’s a gentle breeze that tugs at the corners of my scrubs as I step through the double doors. I get hit with the strong smell of antiseptic and gasoline and it springs me awake, releasing some of the stress of the day. The quiet is encapsulating, the low sun creating shadows that stretch the objects far in the ambulance bay.
There was just a mass casualty—a giant fire in the apartment building on Liberty Avenue. Sixteen patients came to our department and so far, four of them hadn’t made it. It had been a tough day and everyone in the hospital was affected. Even those that didn’t treat the traumatized victims could still feel the heavy air of grief and pain.
When the chaos of treating an overload of patients in an understaffed department had calmed, I came outside deciding to wait for whoever’s next. I’m staring at the street when I hear the doors slide open behind me.
A large hand settles on my waist gently and I look up over my shoulder. The man I see is staring down at me with a spent look, still in his blood-soaked disposable gown. His eye bags are darker than usual.
“Hey, it’s over. Just fixed the last patient up,” Robby says.
I feel a smile creep to my face, “Good—it was brutal.”
“Yeah, you know how it is. This is never easy but you’re good at this Whitaker, saved some lives tonight,” he smiles back. He lets his hand slip down to my hip and off my body.
It was the kind of tender touch I had gotten used to weeks ago since we started dating.
I hear the familiar sound that had been blaring for the past three hours. Ambulances. I turn my head back around as an ambulance speeds into the bay.
We run over, switching to ‘doctor mode’—as Santos calls it—and two paramedics jump out of the back.
“Male, 13, severe injuries. BP 129 over 80, conscious but uncooperative, we had to restrain him. Head contusion, possible fractured skull and broken ribs. He won’t give us anything, he’s too busy cursing us out in Spanish,” the paramedic presents, attempting to speak over the hollering teen.
They pull the kid that laid over a gurney out of the back of the vehicle. He’s a mess with dirt and varying levels of dried blood covering his clothes. There’s blood pooling beneath his head staining his dark, shoulder length hair and the bandana that lay around it, seeming almost as an attempt to stop the bleeding.
I can’t see much more though—largely because he’s thrashing and screaming with every bit of his strength. I pass by them as Robby heads their move. I instead step over and wait for the next impending vehicle.
A second ambulance speeds in right after, almost hitting the other one. It misses the other by a sliver.
I sprint to the back of it as a second boy gets lifted out and they present, “13 year old male, broken wrist, choke marks. Unconscious but responsive to pain—poor kid.” They say that last remark with pity for the roughed up boy in front of them.
“Do we know what happened to him?” I hear myself ask even though I know that I would rather not hear what these kids have gone through. Mostly because I want to be able to sleep tonight, partly because I know I care too much about pediatric cases.
I lean over the gurney to study the boy in front of me—scrawny build, fair skin, blond hair, brown eyes. He’s extremely dirty and has the occasional blood splatter on his tattered clothes.
“No clue. Dispatch wasn’t very specific,” the paramedic says.
I hear Robby yell from the entrance of the hospital, “Whitaker, stay with that kid, I got this one!”
I pull back, nodding as I help move the gurney. Robby leads the first boy in as he screams in agony. I grip the gurney and stare at the boy’s face. I know I recognize him from somewhere but I can’t for the life of me remember where.
We head inside and Dana yells, not even peering up from her tablet, “Trauma one and two’s open!”
I continue with the team of nurses and paramedics until I hear small feet tapping behind me and a pair of thin arms wrap around my ribs. It knocks me forward a little, releasing my grip from the stretcher.
“There you are, jerk.”
I peer down to see… a girl, maybe tenish. She looks up at me with tears in her eyes. All I can see is my mother. Shit. “Gwendolyn!? How’d you get here?”
She hugs me tighter and it finally hits me, “Was that Finney!?” I turn back to the gurney but it’s gone, probably heading for a trauma room by now. I turn to look at Gwen again and she’s still staring at me.
“Okay come with me,” I say.
She grabs my hand as I walk her farther inside. I spot Princess walking by and I whisper, “Hey Princess, this is my sister, Gwen.”
Princess looks at Gwen, then back at me seeing my arm connect down to her hand.
Confused, she matched the volume of my voice, “Hi Gwen.”
“Hi,” Gwen replies.
“Can you get her something to eat please?” I remove my hand from her tight grip and gently pat Gwen on the back as I pass her off to Princess.
“Wait—what about Finney?” Her eyes are red and it pulls at my heart strings.
“I’m going to check on him right now. Be good and go with Princess to get a bite to eat? I’ll be right back I promise!” I say as I back up, breaking into a jog and pushing into trauma two.
“How’s he doing?” I ask, feigning confidence. Now I know this isn’t just any patient. Now I know it’s Finney Blake—my brother who I haven’t seen in 3, maybe 4 years.
From the foot of the gurney I see Santos monitoring his vital signs. Joy is cutting off Finney’s clothes with an impressive speed.
“What do we have?” a male voice cuts through and interrupts anyone’s answers to my question.
Langdon and Garcia enter the room, already commanding control.
“From the looks of it, a malnourished 13 year old boy. He could have a sprained ankle, maybe a broken wrist. Contusions on both his face and throat,” Joy replies.
They pull his cut shirt off. Langdon looks at Santos with the unsaid tension of the earlier months. “What do we see now Doctor… Santos?” he asks.
Santos doesn’t answer, seemingly just staring.
He asks again, “Santos?”
“Oh uhm yeah?” Santos looks up, gaining focus again.
“Multiple contusions all over his torso and arms,” Garcia interjects, trying to save her girlfriend at least a little embarrassment.
Santos is holding Finney’s arm and he winces through his sleep. She lets go, noticing a mark on his torso that leads to his back and gestures towards me to help her. “Whitaker, help me turn him to his side,” she says.
I step forward to help her as his back lifts off the bed when Santos whispers something in horror, “Holy shit are those hand bruises.”
She points a gloved finger to his hips where thick dark marks wrap around his skin.
No, that can be. I go motionless. Oh God.
I stare at my shaking hands, hoping—maybe even praying—that it’s not what I think it is.
In most cases, I’d just accept it as a gutwrenching tell of sexual assault on a minor. This isn’t most cases though.
Maybe it’s not a hand print. Maybe Finny just fell while roughhousing with friends. He could’ve just hit his hip on a desk at school or gotten into another fight or—
“Dennis…? Is that Finney?”
We look over to the door and see Gwen poking her head in with Princess fumbling apologies behind her.
“Huckleberry, you know her?” Santos says as she sets Finney back down off his side, still staring over at Gwen.
I hesitate, “Yeah… this is Gwen… my sister. This is my brother Finney. I’m assuming she rode in with him. Hey, Gwenny.” I feel a familiar tightness in my chest.
“Shit, Huckleberry— I didn’t—” she says and I can tell she doesn’t want to say the wrong thing.
“Gwenny, please go back with Princess,” I plead, “Can you get her out of here?” I sound desperate—I just don’t want Gwen to see Finney in this vulnerable state.
“Come on sweetheart—“ I hear Princess say as she struggles to hold her back. But Gwen breaks free and runs in.
“Gwendolyn Blake!” I close my eyes and yell her full name before I can even think. I open my eyes and see her frozen in her stride, fearful.
“I know you're worried,” I say, “But it's hard to help Finney when we’re distracted—look, just go with Princess and when we're done you can see him for as long as you want. I promise.”
“Sorry Dennis,” she mumbles.
I can only sigh at her regretful display as she turns to leave and walks with Princess. Everyone resumes doing their various tasks, getting back into the flow of things.
“Nice work Whitaker,” Langdon says softly.
It definitely wasn’t though. I don't want Langdon’s praise when I just yelled at my sister.
“Right. Santos, what do we need to order?” Langton continues.
“X-ray, CT, blood tests, IV fluids,” Santos says, not missing a beat, “Rape kit, and we should make sure psyche gets here once he wakes up.”
“Wait— why would we order a rape kit?” Langdon says. He sounds bothered—almost spiteful.
Langdon had always been less eagle-eyed with the sexual assault cases. He didn’t understand a lot of the nuances because he’d never been personally affected by it, and somehow in his ignorant world, that made sense.
He’s never been out alone and terrified for his safety, planned what he’d do if cornered in a public bathroom, or had a friend confide their story to him in misplaced shame. That’s how Santos explained it to me the other day anyway.
I guess it carries over to his work because they clash about cases like this quite often. I freeze as they start to argue.
“Well, there are obvious signs of sexual assault,” she says.
“Well yeah, but you should be one hundred percent on it before we even think about ordering a rape kit for a minor. Who knows what kind of attention can bring a case. Focus on treating his injuries for now.”
“What?” Santos chuckles, almost in disbelief.
“What I mean is… wait a little, gather more evidence, then talk to me about ordering the test.”
“But he—”
“Doctor Santos!” he says, his voice raising, “RAINN states that an exam is to be administered anytime within the first 72 hours. There’s time.”
“They also state that it should be administered as early as possible. We can order it now… Doctor Langdon.”
“Langdon, please just order it,” I manage to squeak out. My voice cracks and I feel like crying—I probably look like it—I just can’t stand this conversation going on longer. I know Finney needs it.
The air goes dead for what feels like forever.
Langdon gives in, “Alright Santos, order the rape kit and call an advocate. Just… leave the sympathetics for later Whitaker. Stay focused.”
—
Joy is finishing cutting off the remainder of his dirty clothes when Langdon looks up for help to dress Finney in a gown.
After a minute or two of bouncing treatment plans off each other and assessing and treating critical wounds Langdon sighs, “Okay, you guys got this.” He stands up straight and rolls his shoulders back, leaving the room.
“Woah. Hey, look at his thigh,” Garcia points to the dark bruises on his upper thigh.
There are more dark bruises that wrap around, where the marks are more fresh. Joy looks horrified. I feel horrified. The confirmation that he'd been hurt. Like that. It’s a shot to the chest. I just brushed his hair out of his face. The bruising. It all hurt my heart in a way I couldn't put into words.
Santos and I pause. Garcia too. She moved back, probably feeling sick from the case. I know I feel sick. We continue working despite it.
“Good luck. Call me if anything needs to be cut open,” Garcia eventually says, going to check on her other patients.
I feel Santos’ hand place on my shoulder. She looks at me tenderly, “Hey come on. You got this.”
I want her words to mean something but all I could think about is what happened to them in the years I’ve been gone. I move mechanically as I get to work alongside Joy and Santos. I set his arm for now as I wrap the deeper cuts. knowing he's going to need stitches.
“The laceration on his hand looks infected,” I say. I press the cut on his palm and it gushes with blood. Yellow-green crusts all around it. I press an alcohol wipe as I see his face twitch in pain before bandaging everything.
He winces again and I just feel worse. I feel my hands shake as I bandage him. Wrists, ankle, neck, face—he's covered head to toe in at least a dozen bandages and bandaids. The compression bandages seemingly make him look smaller against the swelling in his injuries.
Once we’re finished, we wheel him into an open exam room to monitor him. I make sure it's right next to my desk. After we pull the curtain around him closing off the room, Santos gives me a squeeze on the bicep. I can feel all the unspoken words she tries telling me before she walks off.