Need Someone | [Complete]

Chapter 2: Skin Deep

Ziggy moaned. I leaned him back to make sure he could breathe without issue. "Mr. Ziegler?"

His eyes fluttered as he looked up at me. His brows furrowed with confusion and with a groggy voice asked, "You trying to pull a move on me or did I pass out again?"

"You passed out."

He cursed under his breath. When he made a move to sit up, I stopped him. "Try not to move," I said. He resigned with a sigh. I gently tilted his head to the side and found the pulse at his neck. It was slow. His face tensed again. "Are you hurting again?"

"Yeah. Everywhere."

It made no sense. He was perfectly fine two minutes before. It was no wonder they thought he was a medical mystery. I was starting to as well.

Theresa rushed into the room with another nurse. She took one look at me and frowned. "Don't tell me you let him stand on his own."

"Fine, I won't tell you," I said. She didn't find that funny. She leaned down with a huff and helped lift Ziggy off me and back onto the gurney.

"I'm so sorry," he said apologetically. It sounded genuine, not forced or formal like it did when someone apologized out of expectation. "Don't know when I became so high maintenance." Maybe he was a nice guy when he wasn't busy hitting on someone.

"Do us a favor and stop trying to stand on your own," Theresa scolded him like a mother.

"Yes ma'am," Ziggy said with a coy smile. He turned to me and his expression grew serious. "I didn't hurt you did I?" he asked me quietly.

I rubbed my undoubtedly bruised hip out of his view. "No, don't worry. Just listen to Nurse Diaz so we don't get in any more trouble, okay?"

He smiled. "Okay."

Later in the day, I began our shift change checks with Theresa. We went from one decadent private room to the next, and all the patients seemed to have the same theme: ready to go home. The rounds went by quickly.

Our last stop was Mr. Ziegler, who we learned would not be leaving for the foreseeable future due to the morning's incident. Though he was a bit crass, I could appreciate his playful yet inappropriate sense of humor. If I could figure out ways to relate to him, it would make it easier to get him to divulge more nuanced information that could aid in his diagnosis and care. That was the ultimate goal.

Theresa tapped on his door and we went in. He sat cross-legged on his bed with the tray rolled in front of him. He stared at his laptop through thick-framed glasses, nodding his head to the music coming from his designer headphones. "Good evening, Mr. Ziegler," Theresa greeted him, but he didn't respond.

I walked over and leaned into his view. He looked up and removed his headphones. "Hi. Sorry."

"We're here to do our final check before you turn in."