Cristina felt a shiver run down her spine. It wasn’t cold; it was indignation. She looked around for support, but what she saw filled her with dread. The doctors exchanged irritated glances, some wrinkling their noses in disgust. A young intern, with an arrogance that belied his experience, let out a mocking laugh:
“He won’t make it through triage. Let’s not waste resources.”
Cristina waited a second. An eternity, during which she begged anyone to remember their vow to save lives. But only icy silence and knowing laughter were answered. Her heart pounded, not with fear, but with righteous fury. She stepped forward, shattering the wall of apathy.
“Take him to the trauma room immediately!” she ordered in a voice that surprised even herself.
All eyes were fixed on her like sharp blades. One of the doctors, with a sarcastic smile, provoked her:
“Are you going to take on all the responsibilities alone, Cristina? Do you want to play the heroine using the hospital’s resources?”
She met his gaze defiantly.
“If necessary, yes.”
With a steady hand, despite an inner trembling, she set to work. She inserted the IV drip, checked his almost nonexistent vital signs, and cleaned the blood and mud from his face. Beneath his shaggy beard and years of grime, she noticed strong, almost noble features that contrasted sharply with his condition. But she didn’t have time to analyze them. As she examined his pupils, the man opened his eyes.
It was a fleeting moment. Their eyes met. In those deep, dark eyes, Cristina saw neither the madness of a drug addict nor the resignation of a dying man. She saw a silent plea, a humanity crying out for help. She felt an inexplicable connection, as if this man were saying to her, “Don’t let me die.”
“You’re shooting yourself in the foot, Cristina,” a colleague whispered to her as she passed by. “This is going to cost you dearly.”
She ignored him. She stabilized the patient, covered him with a warm blanket, and gently touched his shoulder.
“You’re not alone,” she murmured. “Everything will be alright.”
At that moment, the doors opened again. The sound of heavy heels echoed on the linoleum like a hammer blow. It was Helena Duarte, the hospital director, followed by her entourage of supervisors. Her mere presence made the room’s temperature plummet ten degrees. Her icy gaze swept the room and lingered on Cristina and the “vagrant” on a fully equipped stretcher.
“What does that mean?” His voice cut through the air like a whip.
Cristina sat up straight. She knew what was coming next.
“A life is at stake, Madam Director. I did what I had to do.”
Helena approached slowly, her face etched with utter contempt.
“A life without papers, without insurance, without money. A life that doesn’t justify spending our resources. You’ve broken clear protocols, nurse.”
“Protocols cannot take precedence over a human life!” replied Cristina, her throat tight.
Helena invaded Cristina’s personal space, bringing her face close enough to smell her expensive perfume.
“You just signed your death warrant in this hospital,” she murmured venomously. “I want you in my office tomorrow morning. Prepare to face the consequences.”
Cristina closed her eyes, holding back tears of despair. But when she opened them again, she saw the patient staring at her. Though on the verge of unconsciousness, he seemed to be etching his face into her memory, as if she were the only angel in a hell of white coats.
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