A burned victim came in on a stretcher—with severe injuries, and bandages covering everything except his eyes. He had no ID and no memory of who he was.
“Check his emergency contact,” I told the nurse, my focus still on his vitals.
A few minutes later, as I stood by the nurse’s station, my phone rang. I frowned. Late-night calls were never good news.
Then the nurse’s voice cut through the noise. “Dr. Peterson… the emergency contact for the patient—” She hesitated, her face pale as she looked between me and the chart.
My phone kept ringing. I swallowed hard. “Who is it?”
She barely got the words out. “J. Peterson.”
My world tilted.
The phone slipped from my hands, clattering against the floor. The nurses were saying something, but I couldn’t hear them. I turned, my breath shallow, and looked back at the man in the bed.
