The first time I saw him, I almost didn't look twice.
It was the middle of my third consecutive night shift. The kind where your eyes sting, your scrubs smell faintly of betadine, and your whole body feels like it's running on caffeine and autopilot.
The ICU was always dim at night, lit mostly by monitor screens and the glow from the nurses' station. The air carried that familiar hospital cocktail: antiseptic, faint traces of hand sanitizer and latex.
Room 407 had been empty for a week, ever since a post-op bypass patient had been downgraded to Step-Down. But tonight, there was someone in that bed.
Male. Mid-thirties, maybe older. Dark hair. Strong jaw even in unconsciousness.
The patient chart clipped to the foot of the bed read:
Name: Ronan K. Devereaux
Age: 35
Diagnosis: Traumatic brain injury, status post-MVA (motor vehicle accident) — 4 years ago
Status: Persistent vegetative state
Admitting Physician: Dr. Marcus Lang
Code Status: Full code
Four years.
I read it twice.
He'd been in this state for four years.
His ventilator was gone, he was breathing on his own now, nasal cannula at 2 L/min for comfort. Cardiac monitor leads dotted his chest, feeding numbers to the screen: HR 72, SpO₂ 99%, BP 118/72. Stable.
I checked his IV site, 20-gauge in the left forearm, patent and running maintenance fluids at 50 mL/hr. His skin was warm, perfusion good. There was a faint scent of lavender in the room, probably from the night nurse who'd prepped him.
I scanned the rest of the notes. He'd been transferred here from a private long-term care facility. His family? No one listed. Just a legal representative.
I remember thinking — What's the story here? Who was he before this?
I adjusted the blanket over him, tucking the corners neatly. His face was relaxed, almost too perfect for a man in his condition.
"You've got a nice room," I murmured, not really expecting an answer.
It was the first thing I ever said to him.
That night, during the 0200 rounds, I found myself lingering. The ICU had quieted; most of the other patients were sedated or resting, and the nurses' chatter had faded to whispers.
I pulled a chair close to his bed.
"My name's Alina," I said quietly. "I'm one of your night nurses. Well… probably for the next few weeks at least."
The monitor beeped steadily.
"I don't know if you can hear me. They say you can't. But—" I hesitated, smiling faintly. "I'll talk to you anyway. Seems less lonely that way."
And so I did. I told him about the midnight coffee from the vending machine downstairs that tasted faintly of cardboard. About how my little brother texted me that he failed his driving test again. About how sometimes, I missed home so much it ached, the smell of rain on our street, the noisy corner store, the people who knew me before I ever wore scrubs. One of those people was Rhett.
I didn't say his name that night, I hadn't said it aloud in years, but I thought about him. The boy from high school who once stood under my window in the rain just to tell me he'd wait until I was ready. The same boy who, according to my mother's last email, was now a police officer back home.
I wondered if he still remembered me.
But then the monitor chimed softly, pulling me back to the present.
Ronan's heart rate had risen, not dangerously, but enough for me to notice.
I checked the leads. All intact. No signs of distress.
"Guess I'm boring you," I said lightly, unaware of how wrong I was.
And that was how it began — the quiet hours in Room 407.