Healed Under The Mistletoe

He jerked opened the door to the locker room, shedding his heavy coat en route to his locker. Early. He always came in early enough to overlap the previous shift by at least an hour, because he couldn’t have another situation like that on him again. He went over the roster of patients, peeked into rooms to see who might set off his internal alarms and kept a sharp eye.

He had to pay better attention than he’d paid at Ramapo Memorial.

If he’d understood the likelihood of an escalation of the violence, he’d have taken precautions. It would’ve never gotten to the point of a madman loose in his ER with a gun. He’d have sent her to his home instead, which was well guarded and safer. He’d have directed hospital security to keep out anyone not authorized to be back there, even spouses and known family. If he’d understood how those kinds of situations could leapfrog over occasional hitting and frequent emotional abuse to murder, he’d have gone about it differently, he wouldn’t have had to step in front of a bullet only to have his friend die anyway, and he would’ve gotten the police involved early, no matter how fervently she’d pleaded with him not to.

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