“Oh, hey.” Brett hurriedly places the cap back on his head and motions for him to enter.

Pierre’s eyes grow wide at the sight of my boyfriend. He clears his throat. “Hi! Sorry for intruding, I just need to…” His shoulders hunch as he wheels in, gesturing to the fresh IV bags he’s bringing. “I’m, uh, usually on a different shift,” his voice is steady, but his shaking hands are betrayed by the instruments rattling on the cart. “I’m starting some classes, so they let me switch some of my…not that it matters.”

Brett sits on the wicker couch and pretends to be interested in the chocolates. I can tell by the clench of his jaw he’s struggling to hold it together.

“Sorry, this will just take a minute.” Pierre snaps on a pair of plastic gloves, pulls back my sheets, reaches under my gown and between my legs. His hands tremble as he adjusts my catheter.

Brett quickly averts his eyes.

“She’s doing much better today,” Pierre says as he checks the flow in both of my IV bags.

Brett turns to him with a confused expression on his sad face. “What does that even mean?” he blurts.

Yeah, what does that mean? Enquiring minds want to know. I’m sure as hell not feeling better.

“Well,” Pierre takes a deep breath, “her vitals are stable, oxygen saturation is excellent, and her lungs are clear.” Reciting stats seems to relax him and his shoulders drop from his ears. Pierre strips off his gloves, puts them into the wastebasket and picks up my chart. “Also, she has a terrific urine output.” This last fact he delivers like it’s the cherry on top. He makes a note on the checklist and repositions my chart. “Honestly, for a coma patient with severe head trauma, half a dozen broken bones, and a ruptured spleen, things are pretty darn good.”

And I’d have to argue that things couldn’t be shittier unless, well, you know.

“That’s all for now,” Pierre says. “I’ll give you and your…Miss Gold some privacy.”

Brett rises to his full six feet three inches and extends his hand. “Jackie here sure would appreciate all you’ve done.” The Texas gentleman back in his boots and minding his manners.

Pierre grasps Brett’s hand. “Oh, um, one thing, Mr. Haney.”

Brett squares his shoulders, steeling himself for the gushing, the autograph request. It’s always the same.

“I just want to say,” Pierre’s voice is somber, “I’m so very sorry for your pain.” He releases Brett’s hand and unlocks the cart’s wheels. “Take care now,” he calls over his shoulder as he pushes toward the door.

Huh. Not what we were expecting.

Brett slumps and his eyes fill. “Uh, hold on a minute there fella’.”

Pierre turns.

“Are you…”

“Oh, Haitian,” Pierre says. “Everyone asks. And probably some Swedish on my mom’s side.”