15
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THE NEXT DAY unfolded in a blur of events. By afternoon, Zane had landed a post at the hospital–his shift set to begin at six o’clock in the evening, stretching through to the quiet hours of two in the morning.

At St. Luke’s Hospital, time crept forward. Though the first and second floors thrived with the usual commotion of bustling wards, the third floor’s east wing exudes an air of calmness. Its rooms, sparsely occupied, provided a rare reprieve from the hospital’s otherwise relentless pace. It was in this quieter wing that Zane Nuñez had been assigned for his first shift.

In a modest office tucked near the nurse's station, Zane sat alongside Sarah Perez, a nurse with five years’ experience and a knack for no-nonsense efficiency. Across the desk, Dr. Jacob Dizon, a wiry man in his forties, briefed them on their first case of the night.

“Our patient is a twenty-eight-year-old male admitted for sepsis secondary to a urinary tract infection,” Dr. Dizon began, tapping the file in front of him. “He’s been started on piperacillin-tazobactam, 4.5 grams intravenously every eight hours. Initial cultures suggest Escherichia coli as the culprit.” He looked up, the faintest shadow of weariness crossing his face. “Let’s hope for a routine case—no unexpected complications.”

Sarah frowned slightly, her brow knitting as she scanned the patient’s chart. “Excuse me, Doctor,” she said, “but shouldn’t we consider switching to meropenem? His creatinine levels have been creeping up, and piperacillin-tazobactam can sometimes be nephrotoxic, especially in septic patients.”

Dr. Dizon raised an eyebrow, leaning back slightly. “Good observation, Sarah,” he replied after a pause. “We’ll monitor his renal function closely. If there’s any sign of worsening, we’ll escalate to carbapenems.” He handed the chart to Zane, his gaze softening for a moment. “This is the sort of teamwork you’ll need to master, Nuñez. Keep a close eye on the patient’s vitals and fluid balance, and let’s make sure we stay ahead of any surprises.”

Zane nodded, clutching the chart. "Understood, Doctor. We’ll keep you informed," he said.

“Good,” Dr. Dizon replied.

Sarah and Zane nodded in unison. “Understood, Doctor. We’ll make sure he’s comfortable and keep you updated,” Sarah assured him.

Sarah turned to Zane, a file already in her hand. “Shall we go over Mrs. Lasala’s case before checking on her? She’s in the room next door,” she suggested.

Zane tilted his head, recalling the name. “Wasn’t she admitted for respiratory distress?”

“Yes, she arrived late last night,” Sarah confirmed. “She’s on supplemental oxygen for now. Initial tests were inconclusive, but when I last checked her four hours ago, she was alert and stable.”

Dr. Dizon, pausing at the door, turned back to join the conversation. “Have you reviewed her medical history? Any prior conditions that might explain the respiratory symptoms?”

“She mentioned a history of asthma, dating back to childhood,” Sarah said. “But she hasn’t had any significant flare-ups in years. She also has type 2 diabetes, which could be a contributing factor.”

Dr. Dizon nodded thoughtfully. “Diabetes could complicate matters, especially if there’s underlying infection or inflammation. Let’s schedule a chest X-ray and possibly a CT scan to rule out anything more serious. And ask her about her daily habits—diet, activity level, even work environment. Patients often overlook details that might be crucial.”

“Agreed,” Sarah said. “I’ll recheck her vitals before we proceed. Anything else you’d like us to monitor?”

“For now, focus on oxygen saturation and her response to therapy,” Dr. Dizon instructed. “We’ll adjust the plan once we have the imaging results.”

With a nod, Sarah turned back to Zane. “Let’s make sure she’s comfortable and see if she needs anything before we move forward.”

“You’re dismissed for now,” Dr. Dizon added, checking his watch. “I’ll call you once I’ve reviewed the new patient’s lab results.”

The two walked down the dimly lit corridor, their white uniforms catching the muted glow of the overhead lights. A few figures lingered—a weary guardian seated in a plastic chair, a doctor jotting notes by a patient’s bedside, and a nurse slipping into a nearby room with a clipboard in hand.

“So, newbie,” Sarah said, her tone teasing as she glanced sideways at Zane, who trailed slightly behind her. “Zane Nuñez, right?”

“That’s me,” he replied.

“They say you’ve got three years of nursing experience in Manila.” Sarah led the way toward the nursing station, her stride brisk. “Why come back here? Surely you’d earn more over there.”

Zane hesitated for a moment before answering. “Actually, I worked at three different hospitals in Manila for two years,” he said. “The work was good, but… I don’t know. Something kept pulling me back. This is home, after all.”

Sarah raised an eyebrow, pausing just long enough to glance at him again. “Interesting. I’ve got a college classmate who’s a nurse in Manila now,” she said casually. “She always tells me how chaotic it is there. Lots of patients, long shifts, endless paperwork.”

“It’s all true,” Zane admitted with a faint smile. “But it also teaches you resilience. You learn how to manage with limited resources and think on your feet.”

“Well, I suppose you’ll need every bit of that resilience here,” Sarah said. “This might not be Manila, but St. Luke’s has its own brand of chaos.”

It wasn’t long before they reached the station and sank into the chairs.

“Really?” Zane asked, curiosity lighting his face.

“Yeah. Her name’s Anna,” Sarah replied casually, leaning back slightly.

“Anna Avelino?” Zane asked, his eyebrows shooting up.

“That’s the one!”

A smile spread across Zane’s face. “She’s an incredible nurse. I worked with her at Philippine General Hospital. She’s sharp, compassionate, and has a knack for staying calm in a crisis.”

Sarah chuckled. “Sounds like her. Small world, isn’t it?” She straightened, turning the conversation back to business. “Anyway, tonight you’ll shadow me. Once you’re familiar with the layout and the protocols, you’ll handle patients on your own.”

“Got it,” Zane said, though there was a slight unease in his voice.

Sarah pulled out a file and flipped it open. “We’ve got two patients to monitor tonight–room 202, Mrs. Lasala, and room 203, Mr. Mariano.”

“Can you tell me more about them?” Zane asked, leaning forward.

“Mrs. Lasala is eighty-two. She was admitted with a severe respiratory infection,” Sarah explained. “Her breathing is labored, and her immune system’s pretty compromised. She’s been on oxygen for four hours now, but she’s delicate. Her vitals are stable, but you know how it goes with patients her age—anything can change in a heartbeat.”

Zane nodded, his expression serious. “Sounds like she’ll need close attention. What should I be watching for?”

“She gets anxious at night, so keeping her calm is key. Reassurance goes a long way with her. And if her oxygen saturation drops below ninety percent, alert Dr. Dizon immediately,” Sarah instructed.

“Understood,” Zane replied.

“Then there's Mr. Mariano,” Sarah continued. “The twenty-eight-year-old Dr. Dizon mentioned earlier. He came in with severe abdominal pain, but the meds haven’t been as effective as we’d hoped.”

“So, a stronger medication might be necessary?” Zane asked.

Sarah nodded. “Yes, but until they make a final decision, we’ll have to keep a close eye on him. Monitor his vitals, note any changes in his pain level, and be alert for complications. He’s been restless, pacing the room earlier, so it wouldn’t hurt to check on him more frequently tonight.”

“Understood,” Zane said.

Before Sarah could respond, a familiar voice interrupted them. “Coming along?”

They turned to see Dr. Dizon in his lab coat, clipboard in hand and an expectant look on his face.

Sarah glanced at Zane, then motioned for him to follow as she fell into step beside the doctor. They walked briskly through the quiet hallway, turning corners with ease—left, straight, right, then another quick turn. Finally, they reached the east wing and stopped outside Room 202.

Inside, Mrs. Lasala lay propped up on her hospital bed, her frail frame barely shifting under the blankets. Beside her stood a woman in her forties, who looked up as they entered.

“Good evening, Ma’am,” Sarah said warmly. “We’re here to check on Ma’am Amelia again.”

The woman, Mrs. Jarme, nodded, a weary but polite smile on her face. “Good evening. I followed your advice—no eating or drinking for 24 hours, just as you said.”

“Thank you,” Sarah replied, moving closer to the bedside. “How’s she been today?”

Mrs. Jarme sighed softly. “A bit better, I think. She’s been sleeping more, but she’s still weak. I’ve been keeping an eye on her oxygen mask, just in case.”

“Good job,” Sarah said, glancing at the monitor displaying Mrs. Lasala’s vitals. “We’ll do a quick check now to see how she’s doing.”

Zane stepped forward, observing silently as Sarah adjusted the oxygen flow and gently took the elderly woman’s hand to check for signs of cyanosis. Mrs. Lasala stirred slightly, her eyes fluttering open for a moment before closing again.

“She seems stable for now,” Sarah murmured to Zane. “We’ll keep her comfortable and monitor her closely through the night.”

“Are you ready to take a blood sample so she can eat again?” Mrs. Jarme asked as she rose from her chair and shifted the small table beside her mother to make room for the staff.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Sarah replied with a gentle nod.

Dr. Dizon approached the bed. “You’re doing amazingly well, Ma’am,” he said, smiling at Mrs. Lasala. “At this rate, you’ll be out of here before you know it.”

The elderly woman’s face lit up with a faint smile. Dr. Dizon carefully lifted her oxygen mask, switching off the flow. “We’ll take a quick blood sample to check how you’re doing,” he explained.

“Can I eat after this, Doctor?” Mrs. Lasala asked.

“After the blood sample, Ma’am,” Sarah confirmed, moving to assist.

Zane stepped forward, gathering the necessary supplies and preparing the syringe. He offered a reassuring smile as he approached Mrs. Lasala’s bedside. “Just a small ant bite, Ma’am, and then you can have something to eat,” he said, positioning himself on her left side, near the IV site.

The elderly woman studied him for a moment before her smile widened. “You’re a handsome young man,” she said. “You remind me of my grandson. He has the same kind smile as you.”

Zane chuckled softly as he inserted the syringe with practiced ease. “Thank you, Ma’am. I’d love to meet him someday. What’s he like? Does he enjoy reading, too?”

Mrs. Lasala’s eyes softened with nostalgia. “Oh, he does, but I hardly see him these days. He’s always caught up with those video games and gadgets. I miss him so much.”

Zane nodded, his hands steady as he drew the blood sample. “Kids these days,” he said lightly, sealing the vial and setting it aside. “Don’t worry, Ma’am. Once you’re better, you’ll have plenty of time to catch up with him.”

Mrs. Jarme leaned closer, gently massaging her mother’s hand. “Mamma, once you’re home, we’ll all be together again. He misses you, I promise. He’s just waiting for you to get stronger.”

Mrs. Lasala’s lips trembled, tears pooling in her eyes. “I hope so. I miss my other children, too. I just want to see all of them again.”

Mrs. Jarme’s eyes glistened with emotion, and she squeezed her mother’s hand.

Zane leaned forward. “No tears, Ma’am. Everything’s going to be alright. You’re in good hands, and we’re going to help you get stronger.”

Sarah added with a soft smile, “Focus on resting and getting better. That reunion is waiting for you.”

“They said they’d come home,” Mrs. Lasala added softly.

“Pardon me, Ma’am,” Sarah said in a gentle whisper. “How long has it been since she last saw her children?”

Mrs. Jarme answered. “Our eldest came home five years ago, but the other two… it’s been over ten years. They moved away and settled in different places. Life just took them far from here.”

Zane’s chest tightened as he listened. The ache of distance and separation was something he understood all too well.

“Don’t worry, Ma’am,” he said softly. “Once you’re back home, they’ll surprise you. You’ll see them again soon.”

Dr. Dizon straightened, tearing a sheet from his notes and handing it to Mrs. Jarme. “Here are her medications for now. Twice a day, as prescribed. And she can only have soft foods until the blood test results come in tomorrow.” He met Mrs. Jarme’s gaze. “If anything unusual happens—difficulty breathing, confusion, or anything else—report it to the nurse’s station immediately. The on-call team will assist.”

“Thank you so much, Doctor. And thank you both, dear nurses,” Mrs. Jarme said, clutching the prescription.

“We’re heading off now, Ma’am,” Sarah and Zane said in unison.

Zane lingered a moment longer, offering Mrs. Lasala one last reassuring nod. “We’ll check in again later, Ma’am,” he said gently. “Be strong. You’ve got this.”

As the door to Room 202 clicked shut, another door swung open, revealing Patient 203, Henry Mariano, sitting upright on the bed. IV fluids dripped steadily into his left arm.

“Where’s your ward?” Sarah asked, stepping inside with her notepad.

“Went to fetch more medications,” Mr. Mariano replied, his voice hoarse.

Dr. Dizon approached, lifting his stethoscope to listen to the man’s breathing. “Mr. Mariano, are you still experiencing diarrhoea?” he asked.

Before the patient could reply, he began scratching his forearm, the motion catching the doctor’s attention. Dr. Dizon frowned, stepping closer. “What’s this? Rashes?” He gently took hold of the man’s hand, examining the irritated skin.

Sarah leaned in, jotting notes as Dr. Dizon conducted a thorough check. The rashes extended across Mr. Mariano’s chest and back, red and blotchy against his pale skin.

“We’ll need to investigate this further,” Dr. Dizon murmured, his expression darkening. “It’s not as straightforward as we thought.”

An hour later, they gathered in Dr. Dizon’s office alongside two consulting specialists—Dr. Samira Mariano, a gastroenterologist, and Dr. Chase Santiago, a haematologist.

“It might not be gastroenteritis,” Dr. Mirabete said, flipping through the patient’s chart. “The rash is a new development, and diarrhoea alone doesn’t explain it.”

“How about food poisoning?” Zane suggested, glancing at the doctors nervously but with earnest curiosity.

Dr. Dizon nodded thoughtfully. “It’s possible, but the rashes complicate things. It could suggest a systemic reaction—maybe an allergic response or something more serious.”

Dr. Santiago crossed his arms. “Rashes, you say? That changes things. We’ll need to run a more comprehensive set of tests.”

“A blood test is essential,” Dr. Mirabete added. “And maybe a biopsy if the rashes persist or worsen.”

“Genetic testing might also help,” Zane chimed in. “It could reveal something underlying that we’re missing.”

The room fell silent for a moment as the suggestion hung in the air. Then Dr. Dizon nodded. “Good idea. Let’s add that to the list. We’ll get it done before my shift ends tonight.”

With the plan set, they returned to Room 203. Zane and Sarah worked efficiently to collect blood and tissue samples, ensuring the patient was as comfortable as possible during the process.

Afterward, as the samples were sent off to the lab, Sarah turned to Zane with a tired but satisfied smile. “Time for a coffee break,” she said, gesturing toward the station.

Zane nodded, grateful for the reprieve. The night was far from over, but for now, a brief moment to regroup was exactly what they needed.

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AS THE CLOCK struck three, Zane finally prepared to leave, his shift winding to a close. He stepped out of the bustling ward. The hallway stretched ahead, dimly lit and seemingly deserted, the silence broken only by the steady echo of his footsteps. Yet, there was something in the air, an inexplicable heaviness, as if the walls themselves were watching him. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, a cold unease creeping up his spine.

He shook off the sensation, trying to reason it away. It’s just late. You’re tired. Get a grip, he told himself, but the unease clung to him like a shadow. Focus, just get out. No need to freak out over nothing. Yet, the feeling intensified. The silence around him seemed to press in, suffocating, the dim lights flickering intermittently, casting strange, unsettling shadows that seemed to move when his back was turned.

His pace quickened involuntarily, his breath shallow as he pressed forward, but the hallway seemed longer now, stretching out unnaturally. He looked over his shoulder, but saw nothing—nothing there, yet the sensation of being watched persisted.

Okay, calm down, he thought, trying to steady his pulse. His mind raced. It’s just your imagination. Get out of here, go home...

As if on cue, a bathroom door loomed ahead. Without thinking, he pushed the door open, stepping inside. The air felt thicker in here, heavy with something he couldn’t place. “What the hell is wrong with you?” He muttered to himself, gripping the edge of the sink. His breath was shallow, his hands cold against the porcelain. You’re tired, just wash your face, calm down.

But even as he turned on the tap, his gaze drifted to the mirror—something caught his eye. His pulse skipped. A flicker of red. No, it can't be... But there it was, unmistakable—written on the glass in what appeared to be smeared blood: Stay Away!

Zane froze, his heart thundering in his chest. His eyes locked on the words, the letters seeming to pulse with a life of their own. This is insane. This isn’t real. But his body refused to listen. He backed away from the mirror, his breath coming in ragged gasps. No way. This is... this is... His legs moved before his mind could catch up, panic surging through him. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out the sounds of the world.

He spun on his heel, bolting out of the bathroom. He didn’t dare look back, but the oppressive pressure seemed to follow him, an unseen presence that pressed against his back.

Stay away… The words echoed in his mind, over and over, Stay away...

His breath came faster, his pulse pounding in his throat. Get out. Get out of here. It’s not real. It’s not real...

But the hallway stretched on, empty and cold. It felt endless. Why is this taking so long? Why is it so quiet?

His footsteps quickened, his shoes slapping against the cold tile. What’s happening? He could feel something, or someone, behind him, though the hall remained vacant. His mind raced, unable to quiet the panic gnawing at his insides.

A flicker of movement in the corner of his eye, but when he looked, it was just shadows—just shadows.

Please… just make it to the door...

His legs burned with exertion, his lungs tight as he raced toward the exit. The words, the bloodstains, the feeling—it all swirled together, a nightmare that was too real to ignore. The silence grew louder, more oppressive, suffocating. Every echo of his footsteps sounded like a threat, like something was chasing him, waiting for him to make a mistake.

Finally, the door loomed ahead. He reached for the handle, heart pounding like it might explode. His hand trembled as he yanked it open, the night air hitting his face like a cold slap.

“Safe. I’m safe,” he told himself, but the whisper of the warning clung to him, the blood on the mirror seared into his mind. Stay away...