The aftermath of death
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
It’s 8:00 p.m.
I’m staring at the IV tubing. We forgot to stop the fluids.
I’m standing in the resuscitation room alongside the naked, broken body of a teenage male. Unable to break my gaze on that dripping IV line, thinking, We’re going to flood him.
But it doesn’t really matter.
Somewhere in the background, muffled yelling comes through the doors.
“Sounds like they found the family,” remarks a nurse.
The tech is putting the young …
