Chapter Text
Elizabeth groaned as her pager buzzed, summoning her to the ER—North 14, to be exact. She checked her watch as she stood, stretching her arms overhead. 10:30 p.m. Only an hour and a half left in her shift, she thought.
She grabbed her badge and small bag of supplies and set off down the stairs to the ER. Entering through the side stairwell, she paused to take in the scene before her. The hall was relatively still, a quiet contrast to the bustle she anticipated at her destination. She inhaled slowly, bracing herself. As a child life specialist, she navigated illness, loss, and fear every day. It wasn’t easy, but over the years, she had learned to steady herself before stepping into someone else’s storm.
She was nearly to the ER when the night shift charge nurse, Lena, pulled her aside. Elizabeth offered a brief smile.
“What have we got?” she asked.
Lena sighed, holding up the iPad in her hand. “Thirty-four-year-old father, electrical accident in the garage while prepping for the storm. His six-year-old son was there, called for mom, who dialed 911.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “How’s the dad now?”
Lena consulted the chart, frowning. “Dr. Abbot hasn’t updated yet, but he has electrical burns on his arm and an irregular heartbeat. They’re monitoring him—it’ll be touch and go for a while.”
Elizabeth nodded. “And the son?”
Lena pointed toward the staff lounge across the hall. “He’s there with his mom. I brought some coloring supplies to keep him occupied.”
“I’ll check on him,” Elizabeth said, moving toward the lounge. “Have Dr. Abbot find me when he’s done.”
She knelt briefly at the door, softening her expression into her professional face—a calm presence for children in crisis—and knocked twice before slipping the door open.
“Hello,” she called.
Jane, the mother, looked up from a chair, offering a tired, worried smile. “Come in.”
Elizabeth entered slowly, closing the door softly behind her. “Hi, I’m Elizabeth. I’m one of the child life specialists here at PTMC. I heard what happened to your husband, and I wanted to see how everyone is doing.”
Jane extended a hand. “I’m Jane, and this is Dylan.” She gestured toward her son on the floor.
Dylan sat hunched over a coloring page, gripping the crayon so tightly his knuckles had gone pale. He wasn’t really coloring—just dragging the same dark line back and forth until the paper thinned. When the crayon snapped, he flinched at the sound.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Elizabeth said gently. “How are you doing?”
“I’m worried, but I’ve been told Ethan is stabilized,” Jane admitted. “I’m more worried about Dylan witnessing the accident.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Elizabeth said. “Is it okay if I talk with him for a bit?”
Jane nodded. “I’m going to check with the doctors for an update. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Elizabeth lowered herself to the floor, careful to mirror Dylan’s posture without crowding him. “Hi buddy, my name’s Elizabeth. What’s yours?”
“My name’s Dylan,” he whispered, eyes fixed on the paper.
“Thanks for telling me,” she said. “Can I sit with you for a minute?”
He shrugged, a small, uncertain movement, and shifted just enough to make space.
Elizabeth sat cross-legged beside him. The silence stretched. Dylan’s breathing was shallow, uneven, like he was trying not to cry—or not to feel at all.
After a long moment, he said quietly, “My daddy got hurt.”
“I know,” Elizabeth replied. “You saw something really scary happen.”
“I thought he was sleeping,” Dylan whispered. “But he wouldn’t wake up. His arm was… buzzing. Like when the lights go out.”
His breathing sped up, chest fluttering.
Elizabeth kept her voice steady. “Sometimes when something scary happens, our bodies keep acting like we’re still there—even when we’re safe. That fast feeling in your chest is your body trying to protect you.”
Dylan nodded, wrapping his arms tight around himself. “It won’t stop.”
“It can feel like that,” she said. “We can help it slow down.”
She reached into her bag and pulled out a small stuffed dinosaur, setting it gently on the floor between them.
“This is Wendell. He’s really good at listening. If you want, you can hold him right here.” She placed a hand on her own chest. “When you breathe in, Wendell goes up. When you breathe out, he goes down.”
Dylan hesitated, then pulled Wendell close, pressing him against his shirt. His breaths stayed quick at first, then gradually slowed. His shoulders sagged, just a little.
The door opened softly.
Jane stepped back into the room, phone still in her hand. She froze when she saw Dylan curled around the dinosaur.
Elizabeth looked up and gave a small nod.
Jane crossed the room quietly and sat beside her son. “Hey, buddy,” she murmured.
Dylan leaned into her immediately, burying his face in her side. Jane wrapped an arm around him, holding him close without pressing for words.
“He did exactly what he needed to do,” Elizabeth said gently. “His body’s still calming down.”
Jane nodded, eyes glassy. “The doctor said Ethan’s stable,” she whispered. “They’re watching his heart.”
Elizabeth didn’t reframe it for Dylan. “Your mom will tell you when there’s new information,” she said. “Right now, your job is just to stay close.”
Dylan’s fingers tightened in Jane’s sleeve. “Can we go home soon?”
Jane brushed his hair back. “As soon as we can.”
Elizabeth handed Jane a small packet. “You might notice things like trouble sleeping, jumpiness, or wanting to stay very close over the next few days. That’s all normal after something scary. The best thing you can do is what you’re already doing—stay nearby, answer questions honestly, and keep routines simple.”
Jane pressed the packet to her chest. “Thank you. I didn’t even know what to ask for.”
“You don’t have to,” Elizabeth said. “You’re doing it.”
She rose slowly, giving them space. “I’ll check back in before I leave tonight.”
Dylan peeked up at her then, still clutching Wendell. “Can he come home with me?”
Elizabeth smiled softly. “Wendell’s very good at hospital visits,” she said. “I think he’d like that.”
After ensuring mother and son were settled, she slipped into the hallway. Leaning against the cool wall near the staff exit, she exhaled slowly. Her back ached, fatigue weighed on her shoulders, but there was a lightness too—a quiet satisfaction in having made a difference tonight.
“Elizabeth.”
She straightened at the sound of her name.
Dr. Jack Abbot stood a few feet away, half in the doorway of North 14, arms crossed over his chest. His scrubs were rumpled, sleeves pushed up, a faint smear of something dark—iodine or blood—along one forearm. He looked tired in the way people only did after too many nights like this, posture rigid despite it, as if exhaustion were something he refused to acknowledge.
“You wanted an update,” he said.
“I did,” Elizabeth replied, adjusting the strap of her bag. “How’s the dad?”
“Stable for now,” Jack said. “Cardiology’s watching the arrhythmia. Burns are serious but manageable.” He paused, then added, more reluctantly, “He asked about his kid.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Dylan’s with his mom. He was shaken, but he’s calming down.”
Jack’s jaw tightened—not visibly emotional, but attentive in a way that suggested the information mattered. “Good.” A beat. “Thanks for stepping in.”
The words sounded practiced, like something he didn’t say often.
“Of course,” Elizabeth said. “That’s why I’m here.”
Jack glanced once down the hallway, already mentally elsewhere. “If the kid has nightmares or starts regressing, social work should loop you back in.”
“I gave mom our info,” Elizabeth said. “And some resources.”
He nodded, satisfied. “All right.”
For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Jack shifted his weight, hand already on the doorframe.
“Get home safe,” he said, tone neutral but not dismissive.
“You too,” Elizabeth replied.
Jack was already turning back toward the trauma bay, shoulders squaring as he reentered the noise and light of the ER, the conversation closed as cleanly as it had begun.
Elizabeth watched him go for a second longer than necessary before heading for the stairs.