Page 155 of The Night Shift

Four Killed in Bedford-Stuyvesant Fire. Victims Burned Beyond Recognition

Brooklyn, NY

A late-night fire ripped through a deteriorating two-story home in Bedford-Stuyvesant on Monday, killing all four residents.

By the time emergency responders arrived, the flames had reduced much of the building to rubble. One tenant was found charred beyond recognition, his identity yet to be officially confirmed. A couple, Greg and Beth W., and their twenty-year-old son were rescued alive but later succumbed to their injuries at the hospital.

Fire marshals blame faulty wiring for the deadly blaze, which spread rapidly through the aging structure, exacerbated by poor maintenance and a lack of working smoke alarms. Authorities warn that similar homes may pose the same risks if safety measures are not addressed.

“Damn, that’s crazy,” Kennedy says.

“Uh-huh,” I murmur, eyes still on the page.

“How burnt do you have to be for people to not recognize your face?”

“Really burnt.”

“Would their ghosts be burnt too? If I was a burnt ghost, I’d kill myself all over again.”

“Yeah.”

“And what kind of son lives with his parents at twenty? Doesn’t he have a life? Well, I guess not anymore.” Kennedy snickers.

I fold the paper under my arm, forcing my expression to stay neutral. “I have to go. See you tomorrow, kiddo.”

She says something about me being the biggest cheater on the planet and I step out into the hallway, my mind still tangled in the details of the article as I make my way to the TICU.

The minute I enter the ward, I see Holly standing at a patient’s bedside, surrounded by four interns. “Pain’s expected,” she tells one of them. “I want serial exams every four hours. If he spikes a fever or his belly gets worse, we need to get him back in the OR. Got it?”

The intern nods.

I clear my throat.

All five heads snap toward me.

“Dr. Moore, a word?”

She blinks once, the brown in her eyes looking so rich and deep, I could grow roots in them. “I’m busy,” she says.

“Corbin’s asking for you. Gunshot to the abdomen. You’re needed in the OR right now.”

Her frown is quick, skeptical, like she’s wondering why the message is coming from me instead of her pager. But after a second, she relents. “Fine.” She turns to her interns. “Go through the rest of the patients. Check vitals, outputs, and neuro exams. I want a full update when I get back.”

She brushes past me without so much as a glance. I follow her out. Two seconds later, I reach for her arm and yank her into the nearest storage closet, locking the door softly behind me, and before she can smack me, I raise my good hand slightly, the newspaper still tucked under my arm. “Uh-uh. I’m still injured. Remember?”

Her nostrils flare. She puts her hand down. “So, Corbin is not looking for me?”

I pull the newspaper from under my arm, opening it with one hand, struggling as a sheet from the middle flutters to the floor.

“What the hell are you doing?” Holly asks, unimpressed.

I lift my thigh to fold the front page properly and hold it out to her.

At first, she barely glances at the it. Then, realization dawns. Her face smooths out, eyes widening slightly, lips parting just a smidge.

“Did you do this?” I ask.

“Do what?”