Gregory wakes to the sterile sting of antiseptic and the rhythmic beep of monitors, his right arm numb from fingertip to elbow (not the pins-and-needles kind, but a dead weight that shouldn't exist).
"Patient's EEG shows no seizure activity," nurse Colleen murmurs to someone just out of sight, her penlight flicking across his unresponsive pupils.
Outside the ER bay, rain drums against the windows of St. Peter's Hospital. He sees his own reflection: pale, IV-tethered, mouth dry with the metallic aftertaste of whatever they pumped into him.
"Can you feel this?" Dr. Corey White asks, pressing a cold tuning fork to his lifeless wrist. You don't.
Colleen glances at the chart. "He was found slumped over his laptop in the medical library. Toxicology's clean."
The tuning fork hums against bone as Corey tilts his head. "No trauma either. Yet here we are." He leans in, voice dropping. "Gregory, when was the last time you could move it?"
Gregory tries to flex his fingers. Nothing happens. The numbness creeps like slow poison past his elbow now.
"Three hours ago," he lies, throat tight. He'd been researching case studies on peripheral nerve damage when his hand first went slack, but admitting that feels like confessing to a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Colleen's pen clicks twice against her clipboard, a nervous habit. Corey peels back Gregory's eyelids again, this time with his thumb. "Pupils sluggish but reactive. No nystagmus." His exhale smells of stale coffee. "We'll need an MRI. Stat."
The cardiac monitor spikes as Gregory jerks his head toward the hallway where a janitor pushes a mop bucket past the threshold. The water sloshes crimson. "Is that... blood?" Gregory rasps.
Colleen follows his gaze and exhales through her nose. "Betadine. We had a GI bleed earlier." She snaps her fingers twice in front of his face. "Focus, Gregory. Can you wiggle your toes?"
The janitor pauses, his wrinkled hands tightening around the mop handle as he watches them.
Gregory's monitor beeps faster. "That man..." he starts, but Corey interrupts, pressing a palm to his chest.
"Lie still," Corey instructs as he snaps on gloves, while Colleen adjusts the IV line. "Your BP's climbing. We need to rule out stroke before..."
The janitor's mop handle clatters to the floor, seemingly deliberate. Gregory's eyes dart toward the sound.
The man's lips move silently, forming words Gregory can't hear, but his remaining fingers twitch involuntarily against the sheets.
Corey frowns. "Did he just...?"
Colleen doesn't look up from adjusting the IV drip. "Janitors drop things. Focus, Gregory."
The monitor's beeping accelerates into a continuous whine. Gregory's toes curl involuntarily, not from effort, but something deeper, autonomic.
The janitor steps forward, his rubber soles squeaking on linoleum. "You shouldn't lie to doctors," he says, his voice low and rasping like wet newspaper tearing. Colleen finally looks up, her grip tightening on the IV bag.
Gregory's monitor flatlines with a sustained tone. Corey reaches for the crash cart, but the janitor is faster. A syringe glints in his liver-spotted hand as he jabs it into Gregory's thigh through the thin hospital gown. "This is mercy," the old man whispers.
Colleen grabs the janitor's wrist, but he twists free with unnatural strength. The syringe clatters away empty. Gregory's vision tunnels. The overhead lights stretch into blinding streaks as his diaphragm locks. He tries to scream but only manages a wet gurgle.
Corey's hands are suddenly on Gregory's chest, compressing. "Get that crash cart now!" His voice cracks mid-sentence.
The janitor staggers back, his rheumy eyes widening, not in fear, but recognition. "You'll thank me," he rasps. "They never tell you what grows in the dark."
Colleen's heel slips in the spilled Betadine as she lunges for the crash cart. The defibrillator paddles clatter to the floor beside Gregory's twitching legs.
Corey's compressions grow frantic, each thrust sends a jolt through Gregory's limp body, but his pupils remain fixed and dilated.
Corey reaches for the defibrillator pads, as Colleen takes over doing the compressions. Now charged, Corey shouts "Clear!", but the shock only arches Gregory's back for a second before he collapses again, his still numb arm slapping against the rail with a hollow thud.
The janitor stumbles back, clutching his own chest. "It's already in him," he wheezes. "You can't stop it now," he says as he stumbles out of the room.
Colleen grabs the paddles, her hands shaking. "Again! Clear!" Gregory's body convulses once more, then lies still.
The monitor continues its unrelenting whine. Corey checks for a pulse, his fingers pressing into Gregory's neck. His face brightens. It's weak, but it's there.
"Got him back," Corey breathes, wiping sweat from his brow. Colleen lets out a sharp exhale.
Gregory's fingers twitch, the numbness receding like a tide pulling back, leaving behind an electric tingling. His eyelids flutter open.
Colleen presses a palm to his forehead, feeling cold sweat. "Welcome back," she murmurs.
Gregory's tongue feels thick and foreign. He tries speaking, but nothing intelligible comes out.
"Easy," Colleen says, pressing a cup of water to his lips. He gulps greedily, spilling half down his chin.
Corey leans in close, his breath warm against Gregory's ear. "You coded for 47 seconds. Tell me what happened." The cardiac monitor's steady beep punctuates the silence.
Gregory's lips move, forming words that emerge as a slurred whisper: "He... knew." His gaze drifts to the doorway where the janitor had stood. A single latex glove lies abandoned near the threshold, fingers curled inward like a dead spider.
"Knew what?" Corey and Colleen ask simultaneously.
"You wouldn't believe me, even if I could tell you. I'm fine now, and that's all that matters. Run all the tests you want, but they're gonna be back to normal."
Corey and Colleen just stare dumfounded. Too much to explain, but no answers. They, of course, will run their panel of tests on Gregory, but also they'll take that syringe and find out what was in it.
THE END
