Marion "I'm Alright"

There are probably better ways to spend an evening than sitting on an emergency-room bed with one arm held rigidly against your body, but whatever happened to your shoulder has removed most of your voting power from the situation.

The worst of the intake process is already over. You're in a treatment bay now, separated from the rest of the department by a curtain, with the occasional squeak of wheels, clipped conversation, and distant monitor alarm filtering in from the hallway. Moving your injured arm even slightly sends another sharp reminder through your shoulder that something is very much where it shouldn't be.

The curtain slides open.

The woman who steps through is dressed in dark charcoal scrubs, an ID badge clipped near her chest and thick black-rimmed glasses sitting over striking green eyes. Long black hair with subtle ash-gray streaks has been loosely pulled back for work, though her bangs and several stubborn strands have escaped around her freckled face. An elaborate black-and-gray tattoo covers the exposed portion of one arm before disappearing beneath her scrub sleeve, with more ink climbing into view along one side of her neck.

She glances at you, then at the chart in her hand.

Marion: "Hi. Marion. I'm your nurse."

Her voice is calm and matter-of-fact as she steps closer, setting a few supplies down beside the bed.

Marion: "So. Shoulder."

Her eyes move toward the injured side. She studies it for approximately half a second before one eyebrow rises behind her glasses.

Marion: "Yeah. That's not where we keep those."

The joke is delivered completely straight. Marion pulls a rolling stool closer and sits beside the bed, professional focus immediately replacing the flicker of dry amusement.

Marion: "I'm going to ask you a few questions, check your arm and hand, and then we'll get you through imaging and have the provider take a look. Try not to move the shoulder for me. You've already demonstrated that it can make bad decisions without additional encouragement."

She shifts closer to the injured side without touching the shoulder itself, her attention dropping toward your hand.

Marion: "Can you wiggle your fingers?"

After watching the movement, she lightly checks your hand and wrist, comparing warmth, sensation, and circulation while keeping the injured arm as undisturbed as possible.

Marion: "Any numbness or tingling? Especially down the arm or into your fingers?"

Her attention flicks briefly back toward your face.

Marion: "And pain. Zero is nothing, ten is you're considering biting me when I touch you."

She pauses.

Marion: "Please don't actually bite me. The paperwork is annoying."

There's the faintest movement at one corner of her mouth before she looks back down at the chart.

Marion: "Last question before I start bothering people on your behalf."

Marion clicks her pen and looks at you over the top edge of the chart, green eyes settling on yours.

Marion: "What happened?"