![]() ![]() I can't tell which evidence is relevant to the case, and your passengers aren't terribly useful either. Refusing a passenger is largely pointless, unless you're worried you're going to run out of petrol by the time you reach their destination. I'm certain it would help if I knew more about the killer than single-sentence descriptions of his approach, but as it is, Night Call feels like doing a puzzle without having seen the picture on the box first. In each, the killer is randomly picked from five possible characters. Night Call comes with three different case types, one in which the suspects share a possible motive, one where their connections to the murders are more arbitrary, and one called 'random' that feels no more or less so than the others. I'll be honest, throughout several runs I haven't guessed correctly once, and it was guesswork rather than an investigation. I walked against the flow of the foot traffic of nursing assistants, medical students, volunteers, dietitians, social workers and MRI technicians who were only just starting their shifts.Night Call feels like doing a puzzle without having seen the picture on the box first. Outside, there were no flashing monitors or hissing blood pressure cuffs rather, there were only the beams of a distant bus and the rustling of the trees whose leaves had changed seasons overnight. The calm morning dusted with a misty fog was a stark contrast from the stillest night brushed with a fluorescent glow. Walking out of the hospital in the morning after a night call was a feeling unlike any other. But it was also scented with first touches, first sights and first smiles.Īt 7 a.m., we unloaded the gripping pagers and tangled stethoscopes off of our bodies and signed off until the next night. It smelled of teary-eyed grandparents, skeptical older siblings and scared, new fathers. On others, the flights of stairs we repeatedly climbed to and from the emergency room were enough to keep us warm.Īnd some nights, holding the creased, coated and warm skin of a brand new baby, rubbing his soft head to feel for any missteps and listening to the lub-dubs of his miniature heart eagerly beating rhythmically all helped us ignore the night’s harsh chill.Īlthough the rest of the hospital smelled of sterile solutions and plastic gowns, a newborn baby’s room smelled of his mother anxiously waiting to have her baby back in her arms. On quieter nights, we snuck in warm blankets that we wrapped around our shoulders as we waited for the sun to rise. No matter how hot the season, how full the floor or how thick our sweatshirts, a cool breeze was always present and blowing from the double front doors to the playroom. ![]() The tone, frequency and pitch of the beeps elicited our different physiologic responses because they marked the difference between the news of a newborn baby and a dying child. The small but weighted pagers limply hung from the waist of our scrub pants, though we were always aware of their presence clipped onto our bodies. There were also the sounds we anticipated no matter how many hours we spent waiting for them. The occasional squeaky wheel of a new patient’s stretcher, the buzzer of the parent of a seizing child, and the unexpected phone calls from different workrooms of the hospital must have always sounded the same to the interns. must always have meant that the mother of a cancer-burdened toddler couldn’t sleep again. The gurgling of the shared coffee maker at 3 a.m. The footsteps in the hallway must always have belonged to a nurse, a parent, a nurse and a doctor - in that order. The monotone fan must always have synchronously blended in with the hum of the computers. I assumed this floor also always sounded the same at night. No matter how variable the vital signs or how novel the medications on any given day, the relics from interns past had reliably and simultaneously accumulated over the years and were forgotten in the midst of pended order sets and rehearsed difficult conversations. These were the only consistencies in a room where a different list of children’s names and room numbers were scribbled daily on a whiteboard. The stack of protocol binders on the overloaded shelf, the unclaimed, dirty coffee mug with the peeling cartoon print, the see-through bag of pinwheels hidden behind the seizure monitors, and the tack board of busy algorithms with handy phone numbers. That night, the dimmed lights of the hospital corridors spilled into the workroom which was lit only by my computer screen, but that was enough.ĭespite the few months that I had been there as an intern, I could describe each inch of this room with my eyes closed. ![]() My senior and I had been on night float together for a few weeks. ![]()
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