Date: February 16th, 2024, 8:15 AM
From: Nurse James Wilkins
To: Dr. Laura Kim, Radiation Oncologist
Subject: Concerns about Sam Small's Recovery
Dr. Kim,
I'm starting to get really worried about Sam Small. Her recovery rate is incredible, but those radiation levels were lethal. Do you think she'll pull through this completely? I've never seen someone exposed to that much radiation, and her gastrointestinal symptoms seem to be worsening.
Also, her parents seem so stressed. I feel for them. A chunk of her hair fell out, and the mom just started crying :(. Let me know if there's anything extra we can do for them.
Best,
James
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Date: February 20th, 2024, 4:15 PM
From: Sarah Thompson, RN, Nursing Team Lead
To: [Recipient List: Nursing Team]
Subject: Ongoing Care for Sam Small
Hi Everyone,
As we approach the two-week mark of Sam Small's hospitalization, I wanted to commend all of you for the exceptional care you've been providing. Samantha's condition remains stable, and her wounds, including the gunshot injury, have shown significant healing.
Please be reminded to regularly check and manage the rapid skin shedding, which has been a unique challenge in this case. Approximately five pounds of skin have already been shed and we fully expect her to continue shedding in the same quantities as her recovery continues.
Keep up the great work!
Sarah Thompson, RN
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Date: February 23rd, 2024, 2:00 PM
From: Human Resources
To: [Recipient List: ICU Team], [Recipient List: Nursing Team]
Subject: Breaking: Chernobyl Turns Himself In
Attention Staff,
We wish to address a recent development that has generated significant buzz within our medical community and beyond. As many of you might already be aware from the news, Illya Federov, better known by his alias 'Chernobyl', has voluntarily turned himself in to law enforcement authorities earlier today.
This event has led to speculation among our staff about a possible connection between Federov's surrender and one of our current patients, Samantha Small. While we understand that this is a matter of great interest, we must emphasize the importance of maintaining professional decorum and adherence to our confidentiality protocols.
It has come to our attention that media outlets are already seeking information about Ms. Small's case, likely fueled by the aforementioned speculations. We urge all staff to exercise the utmost discretion and refrain from engaging in any discussions with the press. All media inquiries should be immediately directed to our Public Relations department. It is imperative that we continue to uphold our commitment to patient privacy and confidentiality.
In addition, we have noted that journalists have begun inquiring around the hospital premises. Please be vigilant and ensure that Ms. Small's family members, specifically Benjamin, Rachel, and Morris Small, are not disturbed or approached by members of the press. Their privacy and comfort during this challenging time remain a top priority.
We appreciate your cooperation and dedication to upholding the highest standards of patient care and confidentiality. If you have any concerns or are approached by any external parties seeking information regarding Ms. Small's case, we urge you to contact our department immediately for guidance.
We thank you for your continued professionalism and dedication to the principles of patient care and privacy.
Best regards,
Human Resources Department
Thomas Jefferson University Hospital
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Date: February 23rd, 2024, 4:45 PM
From: Dr. Emily Larson, Anesthesiology
To: Sarah Thompson, RN
Subject: RE: Sam Small - Truly Remarkable
What the fuck?
She's fourteen. There's no way. There's just no way.
I can't even fathom if that was my daughter. Those poor parents...
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Date: February 23rd, 2024, 6:15 PM
From: Sarah Thompson, RN, Nursing Team Lead
To: [Recipient List: ICU Team], [Recipient List: Nursing Team], [Recipient List: Small Case]
Subject: Sam Small Has Awoken
Team,
I'm pleased to inform you that Sam Small has woken up from her coma earlier this evening. She requested water and to turn the thermostat down - cooling blankets and ice packs were provided.
This is a significant milestone in her recovery, and a testament to the care and effort each of you has put in over these past two weeks. Let's continue to support Sam through her recovery process.
Thank you for your incredible work.
Sarah Thompson, RN
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I'm opening my eyes, or at least I think I am. It's hard to tell. Everything's blurry, like I'm underwater, but without the water. There's shapes, fuzzy and indistinct, hovering over me. They're talking, but it's like they're far away, their voices muffled and indistinct. I can't make out the words. It's just noise.
My mouth feels dry, like it's stuffed with cotton balls. I try to speak, to ask where I am, but it comes out as a croak, barely audible. I can't remember... I can't remember how to form words. It's like they're there, on the tip of my tongue, but I can't quite grasp them.
There's a hand on mine, warm and comforting. I focus on that, try to cling to the sensation. It's real, tangible, unlike the swirling confusion in my head. I try to turn my head, to see who it is, but my neck feels like it's made of lead. It won't move.
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Someone's saying my name. "Sam. Sam." I know that name. That's me. I'm Sam. But who's calling me? Why can't I see them?
The shapes start to come into focus, slowly. Three people. Mom, Dad, and Pop-Pop. Their faces are a mix of worry and relief. I want to reassure them, tell them I'm okay, but the words still won't come.
There's a beep, steady and rhythmic. A machine of some sort. I'm in a hospital. Why am I here? What happened? There are flashes in my mind, disjointed, like puzzle pieces that don't fit together. A bright light, a searing pain, a feeling of being torn apart and stitched back together. It's all a jumble.
I try to lift my hand, but it's so heavy. It barely moves. The effort leaves me exhausted, and I can feel myself slipping away again, back into the darkness. But I fight it, cling to consciousness. I need to understand.
"Water," I finally manage to croak out. My throat is a desert. Someone moves, and then a straw is at my lips. I sip, the cool liquid a balm to my parched throat. It helps, a little.
I want to ask questions, so many questions, but they're tangled in my brain. I can't untie the knots. It's frustrating, terrifying. I'm trapped in my own mind, unable to communicate.
Mom's crying. I can hear her, even if I can't see her clearly. I want to comfort her, but how? I can't even comfort myself. Dad's saying something, but the words are lost on me. They're just sounds, no meaning. And Pop-Pop Moe, he's just standing there, a silent sentinel. I don't think I've ever seen him look this worried in my life. It's weird. What is he worried about?
There's a nurse in the room, I think. More shapes, moving around, doing things I can't comprehend. I'm just lying here, helpless, a spectator in my own body.
And then, something strange happens. A thought floats up from the depths of my mind, clear and bright. Chernobyl. The name echoes in my skull. Why does that name stand out? Who is Chernobyl? That's not a person. That's a city. There's a connection, I know it, but it's just out of reach.
My body feels wrong, like it's not really mine. It's too heavy, too numb. I can't feel my legs. Is that normal? I don't know. "Too hot," I manage to squeak, hiss, like a balloon running out of air. "Fan," I ask. I need a fan. I'm overheating. This blanket is too warm.
I writhe around. I'm a caterpillar. In my cocoon. And my insides are soup. When caterpillars go to sleep they turn into jeans. Um. Jeans. Genes. Genetic soup. They turn into genetic soup. And then they turn into a butterfly. Or they die. Am I dying?
My throat hurts. There's too many teeth in me. I know that. I want this blanket off of me. It's too warm and I'm melting. They fix the blanket and that's better. I shut my eyes again. It's easier this way.
I go away.
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I'm half here, half somewhere else. Voices. They're arguing. Words float through, some snagging in my brain.
Dad's voice, sharp, tinged with something like anger. "She's just a kid, Moe! She shouldn't be dealing with... with people like that!"
Moe, calmer, but firm. "Ben, she did something important. You have to see that. She's not just any kid."
That's right. I'm not a kid. I'm a caterpillar. With a kid's head.
Mom's voice, softer, worried. "But at what cost, Moe? She's here, in this hospital bed. What if... what if she doesn't come back to us the same?"
Jordan's there too, quiet. They speak up, hesitant. "Mr. and Mrs. Small, Sam saved my life. And not just mine. She's more a hero than anyone else I've met. Even the adults."
Dad's not having it. "I don't want her to be a hero, Jordan! I want her to be safe. To have a normal life," he says, and I try to say something. I try to even croak, to let it be known that I'm here, but nothing comes out. "You know? Marry some boy or some girl she likes. Graduate college. Get a job that pays enough. Get old. Retire. Have a kid if she wants. You know? I've... I'm... I've already done this song and dance, man."
Thump, thump. Hand on cloth.
Moe's trying to reason. "Ben, Rachel, she's already more than that. She's shown it. I don't think you can stop her even if you wanted to. Remember when I tried to get you to stop sneaking out? What happened then, my darling?"
Dad's sighing. "I just got sneakier,"
"You just got sneakier, that's right, boychik," he replies. A boychik. Boy... Chick... Those words don't go together in that order. But they do in another language. Which language is that? Yiddish? It must be.
Mom cuts in, her voice trembling. "She might be manic, Moe. Making these decisions while... while not in her right mind. We can't just ignore that."
"Sam has bipolar?" Jordan asks. I do? I don't think I do. Nobody told me.
Mom sighing. "No, but I do, Jordan. When I was Sam's age I... also used to do a lot of risky things. I just didn't have superpowers," she's laughing but it doesn't sound like a real laugh. "And maybe not as strong of a moral compass. Ben and I were always concerned she might've, you know... Might've inherited it. Can you do that?"
"What do I look like, a psychiatrist?" Pop-Pop Moe jokes. Is he trying to lighten the mood? He's not a psychiatrist. He's an engineer. Or an architect? He made dams. Dammed. Dammed.
I want to say something. To tell them I'm okay. But the words are just out of reach, dancing away every time I try to grab them.
Dad sounds frustrated, tired. "She got these ideas in her head, and now look where we are. I just... I want my daughter back. I want to worry about her grades, not her fighting a Ukranian terrorist who's also a walking nuclear meltdown," he says, his voice dropping down quietly. I fought a terrorist? When did that happen? "I should worry about... activated charcoal and pregnancy scares, not her... You know. Not this. Not this."
Jordan's voice, a whisper almost. "She is your daughter. And she's incredible."
I'm incredible? A hand is on my wrist. Too warm. Too warm. I'm pulling away.
The conversation keeps going, but it's fading, like I'm sinking back into the bed, the words just echoes in my head. I'm drifting again, the voices becoming distant, muffled. They're worried, they're arguing, but I'm just... tired. So tired.
When I go away, I'm seeing things again. There's a place I go in my dreams and it's quieter than this. So I want to go there instead. It's covered in flowers. Big red flowers that spread out, and when I brush them they spray their pollen and it's pink and grey. Kaboom. Like a bee.
When I go to sleep, Diane's there. She's never saying anything I can recognize. She speaks in the voice of everyone else. It's all garbled like a half-tuned radio station. I ask her every time if I did the right thing. She never answers.
She picks a flower. And then I wake up to someone changing the bandages on my skin. Or someone replacing my blanket.
I open my eyes again, as much as I can. It's dark now. Someone else is here. It's not Jordan. J name. Jamila? Jamila. She's holding my hand to her face. Crying. Crying. Apologizing. For what? Where did my parents go?
Right there. They're the other direction. They are. I hear something. "Sam tells us a lot about you," they say. I do? I do. I do talk about Jamila a lot. How I don't feel like I'm good enough for her. I'm a weird lesbian. With gross pointy teeth. And she's so elegant and... Goth. What did her dad call me that one time? She's so pretty. I bring my hand up and touch her face. She gasps.
I blink, and she's gone. The gang. The gang! The group! Not the gang the bad way. Kate. Not looking at me. Talking at my parents. Not with them. At them. Kate's dad. Marcus is here. Jenna is here. Tasha is here. Lilly is here. Hey, isn't it funny that I know two Lilies? That's weird. But one of them is Hispanic and the other one is Chinese. That's two different ethnicities. Very hard to mix the two of them up.
People drift by. I'm never asleep anymore, not really. I don't sleep, I just return to the flower-place, where Diane is silent and talks to me in everyone else's voice. When I leave the flower-place, time has passed. And then after a couple of minutes, I return there.
Puppeteer was here. For a second. Bulwark was here. There's people I recognize. People I don't. Lily was here. For a second. I miss sleeping in her bed. I wish she was more my type. Spinelli! I jostle in my bed when I see him. He looks at a loss for words. He tries smiling. That's okay. I'm not good at speaking right now too. More people I don't recognize. Some of them are in suits. Some of them aren't.
Do I not recognize them because I don't know them or because I have brain damage?
I roll over in my new blanket. They keep taking my bandages off. I heard someone say ten pounds of skin but I think they're talking about some other patient. I don't think a person has that much skin. Isn't it mostly fat and muscle? They keep putting my bandages back on and then they start itching. Not a fan.
Where did my hair go?
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"Morning, sunshine. How are you feeling?" Pop-Pop Moe asks, holding my hand. My entire hand hurts, and my fingernails aren't even done growing back yet, so it looks especially fucked up. I feel like I lost almost all of my muscle. Weak. Fragile. Like a twig. I don't even know what day it is. My eyes creak open, crusted over by time and tearstuff.
My mouth is so dry. When I speak, I sound like a frog. "Depends," I squeak. "Did I get to 'im?"
Pop-Pop looks at me contemplatively, and then adjusts his glasses with his free hand. "What, that guy? Yeah. Yeah. I think you got to him."
I don't even know if he knows what I'm talking about or if he's just agreeing with me. But it feels good. So I say that. "Then I feel like... A million bucks," I wheeze. I swallow hard and thick. Feels like sludge. Feels not good. Feels like negative a million bucks.
But that's okay. I got 'im.
Pop-Pop Moe squeezes my hand, and for the first time in what feels like months, I go to sleep.
END OF ARC 4: EXORCISM