Chapter 4 - The Lockdown
"What are you doing?!" Mark roared, lunging forward to grab the phone back from the doctor.
Dr. Vance didn't flinch. He stepped back effortlessly, holding the phone behind his back, and pressed the red alert button on his wall-mounted radio unit with his left hand.
"Code Purple, Fourth Floor Orthopedics," Dr. Vance said into the lapel microphone, his voice smooth and cold as steel. "Assault on a patient, active security intervention required. Lock down the east elevators."
"Assault?!" Mark screamed, his hands balling into fists. "Nobody touched him! He dragged himself out of bed! I didn't lay a finger on him today!"
"You kicked his chair away, Mark," Brenda sobbed, stepping back toward the wall, her hands covering her face. "I have it on the first video clip. You kicked it while he was trying to stand up!"
"Shut up!" Mark screamed at her, turning his anger toward his wife. "You stupid bitch, shut your mouth!"
Two heavy security officers in dark green uniforms rounded the corner near the elevator bank, their heavy boots thudding against the floor. Behind them came the head nurse, carrying a clean wheelchair and a tray of emergency trauma supplies.
"Mr. Grant," Dr. Vance said to Mark, gesturing to the security officers. "You need to step away from the patient immediately and remain against the wall."
"I’m his son!" Mark shouted, his eyes wide, darting from the officers to the elevator doors, which had just clicked shut and locked with a low electronic hum. "I have medical power of attorney!"
"You don't," I said, my voice rising from the floor as the two nurses gently lifted my shoulders, helping me slide into the fresh wheelchair they had brought up beside me. "I never signed the papers, Mark. I never signed any of them."
The relief of being lifted off the cold floor was almost overwhelming, but as my broken ankle settled onto the elevated footrest of the new chair, a sharp white wave of pain tore through my lower leg. I gasped, my fingers digging into the rubber armrests until my knuckles turned white.
"Gentlemen," Dr. Vance told the security guards, "hold Mr. Grant in the lobby office until the local police department arrives. I am filing an immediate report for elder abuse, physical extortion, and intentional infliction of grievous bodily harm."
Mark’s face lost all its color. The arrogance that had sustained him for months—the belief that his quiet, frail father would always yield to pressure—vanished, replaced by a raw, ugly terror.
"Dad," Mark pleaded, stepping toward my chair as the two guards gripped his upper arms, pinning his elbows behind his back. "Dad, come on! It’s a misunderstanding! We were stressed about the bills! I was trying to save your house from foreclosure!"
"My house isn't in foreclosure, Mark," I said softly, looking him straight in the eye as the nurse wrapped a warm blanket around my shoulders. "It was paid off twenty years ago. The only thing in danger of foreclosure is your second business loan."
Mark opened his mouth to lie again, but the security officers didn't give him the chance. They turned him around and marched him down the long corridor toward the service exit, his boots dragging against the floor he had forced me to crawl across minutes earlier.
Brenda stood pressed against the wall, her expensive clothes looking wrinkled, her red nails digging into her elbows as she wept silently.
May you like
Dr. Vance walked over to my chair, tucked Brenda’s phone into his pocket, and looked down at me with deep respect.
"Let's get you back into a private room, Arthur," he said gently. "We're going to fix that ankle properly this time. And nobody is entering your room without my personal permission."
