Chapter 5 - The Patient in Room 711Two days later, Ethan Cho arrived at Mercy General in an ambulance.
He had been shot.
Yuna learned his name only after the trauma team had stabilized him.
The emergency department was over capacity.
A burst pipe had temporarily closed twelve rooms on the fifth floor.
And because hospitals possessed a cruel sense of irony, Ethan Cho was transferred to Room 711.
Yuna’s unit.
Her patient.
When Jacob learned, he said one word.
“No.”
Yuna stood inside the supply room with her phone against her ear.
“He is medically stable.”
“Transfer him.”
“That isn’t your decision.”
“Then make it yours.”
“Jacob.”
“He threatened you.”
“We don’t know that.”
“He sent the photograph.”
“We believe he sent the photograph.”
“Yuna.”
“And right now he has a chest tube, two fractured ribs, a repaired vascular injury, and a police officer outside his door.”
Silence.
“He is my patient.”
“He wants you dead.”
“Possibly.”
“Does the distinction matter?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Because evidence matters.”
Jacob breathed heavily on the other end.
She continued.
“And because I don’t get to decide who deserves nursing care based on whether I like them.”
“This is not about liking him.”
“I know.”
“He may have tried to destroy my father.”
“I know.”
“He threatened you.”
“I know.”
“And you’re going to take care of him.”
“Yes.”
Jacob was silent for a long time.
Finally:
“I hate this.”
“I know.”
“I hate that I understand why.”
Yuna closed her eyes.
“That’s probably why I love you.”
Neither of them spoke.
It was the first time she had said it.
Not implied.
Not demonstrated.
Said.
Jacob’s voice changed.
“Yuna.”
“I have medication rounds.”
“You cannot say that and then go administer medication.”
“I apparently can.”
“Yuna.”
She smiled despite everything.
“I love you,” she said again.
Then she disconnected.
—
Ethan Cho woke at 2:13 p.m.
His first words were:
“You’re her.”
Yuna checked his blood pressure.
“Good afternoon.”
“The nurse.”
“Yes.”
“The alley nurse.”
She looked at him.
His face was pale from blood loss.
He resembled Daniel around the eyes.
“Your blood pressure is improving.”
“You saved him.”
“Eleven years ago.”
“You should’ve left him there.”
Yuna adjusted his IV line.
“You’re entitled to your opinion.”
“He ruined my father.”
“Your father seems capable of ruining parts of his life without assistance.”
Ethan laughed.
Then grimaced.
“Don’t do that,” Yuna said. “You have fractured ribs.”
“You’re not afraid of me.”
“I’m cautious around you.”
“That’s different.”
“Yes.”
He studied her.
“You know what my father says about you?”
“No.”
“That you’re Jacob’s weakness.”
Yuna checked the monitor.
“What do you think?”
Ethan’s eyes narrowed.
“I think you’re the reason he thinks he’s better than us.”
“No.”
He waited.
“He decided that before we met again.”
“You don’t know him.”
“I know him better than you do.”
“You know the cleaned-up version.”
Yuna stopped.
Then looked at him.
“I know there are versions of Jacob I have not seen. I also know people are not obligated to remain the worst thing they have ever been.”
Something flickered across Ethan’s face.
“Convenient.”
“Necessary.”
“For him.”
“For everyone.”
Ethan looked away.
Yuna finished the assessment.
As she reached the door, he said:
“I didn’t send the flower.”
She stopped.
“What?”
“The flower. The photograph. That wasn’t me.”
Yuna turned.
“Your father said—”
“My father doesn’t know everything.”
“Who sent them?”
Ethan closed his eyes.
“Ask Jacob who Min-jae Kang is.”
—
Jacob arrived twenty-three minutes later.
Yuna met him outside the unit.
“Min-jae Kang.”
Jacob stopped walking.
That was enough.
“Who is he?”
“Where did you hear that name?”
“Ethan.”
Jacob looked toward Room 711.
“Who is he?”
“A man I thought was gone.”
“You have an alarming number of those.”
“This one is different.”
“How?”
Jacob looked at her.
“Because Daniel wanted me dead.”
A pause.
“Min-jae tried.”
The alley.
Yuna understood.
“Eleven years ago?”
“Yes.”
“The wound.”
“Yes.”
She stared at him.
“Min-jae Kang was responsible?”
Jacob nodded.
“And he knows who I am because—”
“He saw you.”
Yuna went still.
“In the alley?”
“Yes.”
“You never told me.”
“I thought he was dead.”
“That does not answer the question.”
Jacob looked away.
“No,” he said. “I never told you.”
“Why?”
“Because I believed telling you would make something you survived into something you had to carry.”
“That was my decision.”
“I know.”
The anger came quietly.
That was how Yuna’s anger usually came.
Not shouting.
Precision.
“You knew someone had seen me save you.”
“Yes.”
“You knew that person was dangerous.”
“Yes.”
“And for eleven years you sent flowers and interfered with things around my life without ever telling me the reason you might actually have had to be concerned.”
“I believed Min-jae was dead.”
“You believed.”
“Yes.”
“Did you know?”
“No.”
“Then you chose for me.”
Jacob closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
She stepped back.
“Do not come home with me tonight.”
His eyes opened.
“Yuna.”
“I need space.”
“Because I didn’t tell you about Min-jae?”
“Because we have spent a year building something around the idea that you would stop deciding what information I could handle.”
“I know.”
“And apparently there was an exception.”
“There shouldn’t have been.”
“But there was.”
“Yes.”
She nodded.
“Then I need space.”
Jacob looked as though she had struck him.
Yuna hated that.
She hated that loving someone did not make boundaries hurt less.
Sometimes it made them hurt more.
But she did not withdraw the boundary.
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
He nodded.
“All right.”
He left.
Yuna stood in the corridor for several seconds.
Then Ji-Young appeared beside her.
“I saw him leave.”
“Yes.”
“Bad?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want coffee?”
“No.”
“Tea?”
“No.”
“Do you want me to stand here and pretend I have something medically important to discuss?”
Yuna looked at her.
“Yes.”
Ji-Young opened a chart.
“Excellent. This patient’s potassium is profoundly interesting.”
Yuna laughed despite herself.
Then, unexpectedly, she cried.
Not much.
Three tears.
Maybe four.
Ji-Young continued discussing potassium.
She never mentioned them.
—
At 3:06 a.m., someone entered Room 711.
The police officer outside had been called away by a fabricated disturbance two floors below.
The security camera at the west corridor junction lost signal for ninety-seven seconds.
Yuna was at the nurses’ station when Ethan’s monitor alarmed.
She ran.
Room 711 was dark.
Ethan was convulsing.
His IV line had been accessed.
Yuna hit the emergency call button.
“Ji-Young!”
The unit exploded into motion.
Yuna checked Ethan’s airway.
His pupils.
His line.
There.
A puncture mark in the medication port.
Something administered.
“What did he get?” Ji-Young shouted.
“I don’t know.”
Ethan’s oxygen saturation dropped.
“Bag him.”
They worked.
Six minutes.
Nine.
Fourteen.
Ethan survived.
Barely.
When the toxicology screen returned, Yuna stared at the result.
A concentrated dose of a medication that, in the wrong quantity, could stop the heart.
The medication was stocked on the seventh floor.
May you like
Access logs showed it had been removed at 2:58 a.m.
Using Yuna Park’s credentials.
Related Stories
