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Nineteen minutes, fifty-two seconds later, I hear heavy machines being wheeled and locked into place. Medical staff rushing around.
I slowly open my eyes. "What happened?"
The frenzy pauses.
"You lost consciousness. Again," says Dr. Wynn. "Do you know what day it is?"
"It's Monday, six-oh-five p.m. You're Dr. Wynn. And I'm your anonymous patient."
Dr. Wynn sighs in relief. "I wish I had a name to call you."
"Same."
She smirks. "You look only sixteen or seventeen. Someone out there must be looking for you. We notified child social services, but nothing so far."
So I disappeared, but my family hasn't even reported me missing? I fight to prevent the hurt from bubbling up to my face.
Dr. Wynn tucks her hair behind and ear. If that nurse's hair is the color of an old penny, Dr. Wynn's is that of a long-circulated nickel. "I might as well share the bad news."
"We haven't gotten to the bad news yet?"
She winces. "This is the emergency room. I want to run you through additional neurological testing. But unfortunately, without an insurance card or method of payment, after you're stabilized, we won't be able to take you upstairs as an inpatient."
Shocked, I feel my chin retract into my neck. "You mean...you're kicking me out? Back to the sidewalk?"
"No, no," she says reassuringly. "Since you're a minor, after you're discharged from the ER, we'll release you into the custody of the state."
"Like, to an orphanage?"
"I believe the preferred term nowadays is group home. And then perhaps foster care."
"And if I refuse?"
"You're a minor. It's the law."
She was right. That was the bad news. Me and my medical problems are getting thrown in kiddie jail. Just because I can't pay for treatment. My ears tingle with the rising heat of indignation.
"I'm truly sorry," she says, as I try to make sense of my predicament. "We're a private hospital. This is the sad state of medicine in today. Everyone's getting rich at the expense of patients. It's unfair. Believe me, I hate it. It's why I'm retiring."
The thought of living in an orphanage-regardless of what it's called nowadays-brings a gut-churning bitter taste to my mouth. But my only alternative would be, I suppose, escaping before I'm discharged and living...on the street? With no money, no identity? I don't even know what city I'm in.
"There's no way I can stay?"
She looks at her tablet. "I can check if any clinical trials match your symptoms. You'd have to transfer elsewhere, but your treatment would be paid for. It's a long shot."
