Chapter Four

Jordan woke up a couple of times, confused and alone, surrounded by steadily beeping machinery. His vision was blurred, his memory fuzzy. He couldn’t remember where he was or why he was here. There were several parts of his body that he couldn’t feel; his abdomen, his arms and legs, his forehead. One of the only things he could feel was the strap of plastic affixed around his incredibly dry mouth.

Usually he just blinked a couple of times, barely able to recognize that he was in some sort of medical facility, before succumbing to the overwhelming numbness of his mind and body. Each time this happened he grew more and more lucid, until eventually he was able to wake up and stay awake. This also meant that his mind was now able to form very pertinent and somewhat frantic questions. Namely, where was he and what had happened to him? Also, where was his uncle, and who was covering all his shifts?

The worst thing was that he couldn’t even voice any of these concerns thanks to the tube stuck down the back of his throat. He wasn’t quite sure how he could feel so much like he was choking, yet have air being forced into his lungs at the same time. To make matters worse, the machine was making his diaphragm seize painfully every couple of seconds with its constant involuntary expansion. Jordan carefully studied his surroundings in order to distract himself from the discomfort.

The first thing he noticed was that he was not in a room, but a small cubby, jam-packed with equipment and medical supplies. Right next to his bed was a steadily beeping heart rate monitor with a blood pressure cuff draped over the side. Behind that was a small desk with a computer open to a spreadsheet that he couldn’t begin to decipher even if he wasn’t on pain meds. On the other side of the bed was an IV drip alongside whatever monstrosity was responsible for force feeding him oxygen. Beyond that, there was a literal wall of gloves, tissues, antibacterial wipes, syringes, and various brightly colored waste disposal bins. Across from the foot of the bed was a half-drawn blue curtain leading out into a bright hallway. He figured the hallway must be part of an ICU, but he wasn’t sure. It was hard to hear anything over the whir of his machines.

He pressed his chin to his chest and crossed his eyes so that he could look down at himself over the clunky oxygen mask. He was barefoot and wearing a standard white hospital gown. There were all kinds of tubes and wires sprouting out from his arms and he was thinner than he remembered being. He was starting to get concerned about not feeling anything. From the looks of things, he had been through quite an ordeal. Shouldn’t something hurt, even just a little bit?

Jordan creased his eyebrows and focused all his attention on his toes. Nothing happened at first, but then slowly, one by one, they started to wiggle. It was like there was a delayed response between his limbs and brain. Curious, he tried the same experiment with his fingers and got much the same results. If he had full control over his lungs, he would have breathed a huge sigh of relief.

As he was lying there, adjusting to his newfound awareness and trying not to panic, a small blonde woman came into view. She was walking briskly past his little cubicle wearing a white lab coat with a stethoscope draped over her neck. Jordan’s eyes bulged, and his fingers jerked upward. Still, the woman didn’t notice him. He knew it was probably a terrible idea, but he needed to get her attention. Otherwise he could be laying here alone in this medical equivalent of purgatory for God knows how much longer. So, he did the only thing he could think of. He opened his mouth and tried to form words around the tube in his throat.

“Help me,” he choked out.

The words came out as indistinguishable blobs of noise, but they did achieve the desired effect. The blonde woman snapped her head around, startled and locked eyes on him. She was movie-star gorgeous with pouty lips and crystal blue eyes, but she also had frown lines and deep dark circles. She looked thoroughly and utterly exhausted, as if it had been the bad week to end all bad weeks. Jordan could relate. The woman pushed the blue curtain all the way back and stepped into the room with him.

“You awake?” she asked, picking up his chart from a bucket attached to the wall behind his bed.

Jordan tipped his head forward in a nod. The lady wrote something down and then looked at him again.

“Do you know what your name is? You don’t have to tell me. Just blink once for yes and twice for no.”

Jordan blinked once.

The woman gave him the briefest of smiles and wrote something else down. She checked all his vitals and asked him to make a fist, which he gladly did.

“Wonderful. Can you lift your head off the pillow for me?”

With extra concentration he was able to do what she asked, but only for a few moments. She wrote that down too. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out a walkie talkie.

“Hey Angie, your guy in 311 is awake and stable. He needs extubating and a meeting with Dr. Rashaad as soon as he’s available. Answer as many of his questions as you can and get him started on filling out and signing forms in the meantime.”

She turned back to Jordan apologetically.

“I’m so sorry. Normally you’d be getting constant supervision, but things have been a little bit hectic around here. I have a surgery to assist on, but your nurse will be by in a few minutes to explain what’s been going on. From what it says on your chart, you’re doing really well though. Hopefully you’ll be up and moving soon.”

With that, she replaced his chart on the wall, pulled a blanket up over his bare legs, and left the room. As promised, she was soon replaced by a short older woman who introduced herself as Angela and immediately began the process of removing the tube from his trachea, for which he was immensely grateful. She gave him some water and instructed him to drink it slowly. Every sip felt like heaven on his newly liberated throat.

Angela checked his vitals again, even though the flustered surgeon had just done so a few minutes ago and ran a couple of tests to make sure he was breathing okay without the tube. She seemed satisfied with the results.

“Are you feeling any pain?” she asked him.

Jordan thought about it. Now that he was sitting up in the bed, he could feel twinges of discomfort in his chest and arms. Not to mention the sore throat.

“A little,” he whispered. His voice sounded like he’d been smoking for fifty years.

Angela nodded.

“Could you rate that pain on a scale of one to ten?”

“Two.”

“Good. Now can you tell me your name?”

Jordan frowned. Why was everyone here so concerned about his name? The confusion must have shown on his face because Angela immediately elaborated.

“You were brought in wearing an elf suit. No identification on you. Also, nobody has come in looking for someone matching your description, so we need to know your name and some basic information about you. Also, now that you’re awake I’m gonna need you to sign some consent forms for us to continue treatment.”

That explained it. Something must have happened to him at work, but he had no idea what that might be.

“Continue treatment for what?” he asked.

The nurse frowned.

“You were involved in an incident.”

“What kind of incident?”

Angela gave him a pitying glance and returned her attention to his chart.

“Please sir, the doctor will explain it all when he gets here. I just need your name, date of birth, and any allergies/preexisting conditions.”

Jordan wasn’t having any of it.

“Tell me what happened to me,” he demanded as loudly as his scratchy throat would manage.

Angela sighed.

“If I tell you, will you cooperate with me?”

“Yes.”

“You were injured in a mass shooting.”

Jordan stared at her with wide, disbelieving eyes.

“And that’s all you’re getting out of me until the doctor gets here,” she continued. “Now please, your name?”

“Jordan Mitchell,” he said hollowly.

He was wracking his brain, trying to piece together what had happened. It seemed insane, impossible even. Well, obviously shootings were very possible. They happened all the time, he wasn’t naive enough to think otherwise, but those were other places. Big cities, important buildings. Those types of things didn’t happen here. In Michigan people kept guns to shoot deer and elk and wolves if they got too close, not random people out enjoying their day at the mall.

And yet…

It all came flooding back to him at once. The security alert, the shoe store, the gunman’s soulless eyes. The sound of a little girl crying. Jordan shook his head rapidly, trying to clear the images from his brain.

“No,” he whispered.

Beside him his heart rate monitor started beating frantically as he got more and more worked up.

“Jordan, you need to calm down. Please. Tell me your date of birth.”

“July 17th, 1995.”

“Any allergies or preexisting conditions?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Angie patted his shoulder sympathetically. Slowly his heart rate started to decrease as reality set in.

“How big is mass?” he asked finally.

“Excuse me?”

“You said there was a mass shooting. How mass? How many people got hurt?”

She bit her lip and her eyes flitted toward his monitor.

“You can find out all about that later. For now, you just need to focus on getting better. You know, you’re very lucky to be alive.”

Jordan didn’t feel very lucky. He felt sick to his stomach. How was he supposed to “focus on getting better” when he was stuck in the hospital with no insurance and a sick uncle and no way to get back to work? Not only would he not be able to pay for his and his uncle’s treatments, but he also wouldn’t be able to pay his rent. He was already stretched so thin, and this was the tear that would break him. What on Earth was he supposed to do now?

Then he remembered the little girl, Lucy. He remembered how scared and helpless she’d looked. How her eyes had gone wide when he tackled the gunman. He remembered the sounds of her screams ringing in his ears as he slowly lost consciousness. He had failed to save her. The gunman had probably shot her right after he’d shot him. Chances were, she hadn’t survived. Stinging tears started falling from his eyes. What was the point of surviving if that little girl hadn’t?

Eventually the doctor came in to explain that he had been shot in the chest. He mentioned something about the bullet being lodged less than a millimeter away from his aorta and how they’d had to do emergency surgery to remove it. He went on and on about the procedure and the outcome and the projected rate of recovery, but Jordan wasn’t really listening any longer.

He wasn’t proud of it, but he found himself wishing that the bullet had killed him. At least then he wouldn’t have all this pain and grief to worry about. At least if he was dead, he could finally be at peace.