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Shirayuki fills in the pulse rate on the patient’s new chart and snaps her watch closed. One of these days she’ll get the glass fixed- the chip in it from her plane crash makes the second hand hard to read between 8 and 9- but she only thinks of it when she’s in the middle of something important. Like triage.
“That’s a nice steady pulse, at least,” she says, followed by a pause for the interpreter to echo the information. While the man’s face doesn’t show much in the way of relief, his body says otherwise. Taking his pulse again right now would probably shave five BPM off the rate. “Can you tell me again when the chest pain began?”
She can follow about half of what he explains after the months in Algeria and the time she’s been back in France, but her command of the language is still not what she wishes it was. She can get around and manage basic politeness, but she’s far from being able to manage without the interpreter. Still, it’s better than with the German patients, where she’s dependent on the interpreter for everything.
With his initial charting complete, the corpsmen and guards will see the patient off to an examination room where the doctor and a French nurse will work on a diagnosis. With the POW hospital not knowing just how long they’d have the extra support on TD, they’re understandably reluctant to integrate any flight nurses into their process. So intake and processing is what Shirayuki will be doing until further notice. She has to admit it’s nice seeing some minor injuries for once.
The next patient promises to be one of those, by the notes at the top of his chart. Jalil Attali, an Algerian national, injured in a prisoner transport crash. He’s ambulatory, entering the room on silent footsteps behind the guard, who stations himself in the corner of the room. The patient sits on the exam table, a pressure wrap around his wrist the only sign of why he’s at the hospital.
And Shirayuki knows that face.
The translator asks for his name, and Obi answers. Her heart leaps at the sound of his voice, even with an unfamiliar accent, crashing just as quickly. She can’t know him, not here. He has to be a patient like any other. “I’m going to check your temperature, Mr. Attali.” The translator echoes her words, and he opens his mouth obediently for the thermometer.
As much as she’s hated being so far from him, being so close is torture. She brushes his lip taking back the thermometer, and can’t kiss him. His pupils dilate in the light, blessedly evenly, but he won’t meet her eyes. When she puts the blood pressure cuff on his arm, there’s a long new scar there she’s never seen before.
“Would you tell me about the crash, please?” She jots down the interpreter’s explanations. No, he wasn’t thrown free of the vehicle. No, he did not hit his head. She unwraps the bandaged wrist and while it’s swollen, the bruising is exactly consistent with his account. Like everything else about his charade, it’s perfect. One Vichy ex-official on his way to a prison camp, sidetracked by a minor injury. Is he looking for someone? Someone in her hospital? She can’t ask, and she’ll probably never find out. “The doctor will see you in just a few minutes. Please take him to room two,” she adds to the guard, and everyone stands.
This is when Obi disappears again. His footsteps are already silent and she feels the sting of tears, but just as he passes her, both the interpreter and the guard are facing the door.
One hand darts out, quick as a snake striking. His fingers slot between hers and she swallows a gasp. Longing, she meets his eyes and they twinkle. His lips move silently, three words she can’t hear but her heart can guess, and then the face of Jalil Attali drops back over Obi like a mask, and he’s gone.