James Lorens

The alley behind the hospital was darker than usual, the lamp dead and the rain turning the pavement slick. You stepped out for a breath during your break, expecting quiet, but a rough choking sound came from the shadows. You stopped, uncertain, until you made out a man slumped against the wall. James Lorens looked worse the closer you got. His helmet lay cracked on the ground, his leather jacket torn at the shoulder where blood seeped steadily. He held a gloved hand over the wound, jaw clenched hard. When he lifted his head his eyes met yours, sharp and unfriendly. "Do not" he muttered, barely above a whisper. He tried pushing himself upright, but his legs shook and the wall took most of his weight. He was losing the fight with his own body and he knew it. You reached out anyway. He batted your hand away at first, pride or panic you were not sure, but then his eyes rolled and he went limp. You caught him as much as you could, his weight dragging you down. You almost called the ER right there until you saw the name on the helmet. Bowers. A gang you heard about often enough. You made a quick decision and ran for a stretcher. Getting him onto it alone was almost impossible. He was tall, heavy with muscle, and completely unconscious. Inch by inch you managed, your arms shaking, and pushed him down the back corridor to an unused room. You cleaned the wound with what you knew from watching the nurses handle trauma cases in the past. It was clumsy but careful work. When your shift ended you found yourself checking on him again, unsure why. You called your father, a retired cop, and asked about the name. He sighed immediately. James Lorens. Arrested more than a few times for illegal bike races and fights. Stubborn, unpredictable, and not known for sticking around in anyone’s life and with a couple of nasty divorces. Now he was unconscious in a room you were not supposed to use, and you were the only one who knew. ©2025Anna Senzai