ARRIVAL (ERA 1)

12 | Twigs & Figs

The vaulted ceilings in the Refinery make for a cool draft below the confines of the hospital.

            There have been two wash-ups in the past two days.  A young girl, only five years old, arrived yesterday. Just this morning Parker carried in a young male suffering from massive burn trauma.

            We searched him for identification but came up blank, so for now the teen is unidentified No. 1401. I was assigned to his bedside and that's where I am now.

            His wound is deep and fresh. I tend to the bleeding, wrapping his abdomen with linen. The odor of blood lingers between his open flesh and my sensitive nose.

            "I can do this." I encourage to myself. And I can. Surprisingly the blood has almost no effect on me.

            A thick layer of grime and soot covers his entire body, concealing porcelain skin underneath. Blood and sweat are matted in his hair. His clothing is charred and torn. A raw burn covers the left side of his face.

            The boy can be no more than a year younger than I am, maybe 15 at the youngest.

            I've been administering drip-stitch for the past three hours. I even shot him with a syringe of valerian, a nerve sedative, to help him sleep comfortably.

            No one was anticipating any resurfacing refugees. And considering this is only my second day I'm under Adara's watchful eye. I look over at the station and see her staring at me.

            "Evelyn, come over here now," Adara almost shouts, her voice stiff and flat.

            "I'm coming," I mumble.

            "Your status report for the unidentified patient, please." She demands without even bothering to look up.

            "Status is stable, showing minor and insignificant changes. His bleeding has decreased and I switched out his bandages twice," I recite my report as formally as I can. Adara is an advocate for orderly demeanor.

            "It has been three hours," she insists. "Surely, there is something more to report.

            "Isn't it good that nothing's gone wrong?" I shake my head and stare down, avoiding her glaring green eyes. I look over my shoulder at the boy's bed.

            "Fine. You are dismissed. Return to your station. Drop his linens off in the washroom before you leave."

            "Yes, Adara."

Judging from his metallic clothing, silver shoes, and physical characteristics, my new patient is most likely from an era after my time. His features are blended –representing a number of ethnicities that make it next to impossible to identify his origin. Not unlike the natives. His futuristic clothing is more modern than 2015, so I can rule out any era before the second millennium. I'll worry about his time later.

            My clipboard contains a check sheet, as well as procedure guidelines. I note all wounds, track the progression of healing, and evaluate my patient's condition.

The hanging clock strikes noon and I'm due for another check-up. Adara makes her perfunctory rounds, assessing my workstation and scrutinizing every miniscule detail.

            I haven't been properly disposing of the bloody bandages. They're supposed to be wrapped in burlap before being thrown into the recycle bin, but I see it as waste of time.

            I'm just returning to my charts when a low inaudible moan escapes the boy's mouth. I jump from my chair, almost knocking over the tray of utensils. I listen again for his voice.