Hands Off My IV

My eyes immediately locked onto the bold print on the fluid bag: PENICILLIN.

Swallowing felt like grinding broken glass, but I forced the words past my shredded vocal cords. "I'm allergic.

Did you grab the wrong bag?" The nurse just smiled and uncapped the IV line, ready to push the needle straight into my port. "You need to fight off the inflammation," she said. "Nobody gave you the wrong meds.

Just relax."] Chapter 1 My jaw went slack. She wasn't listening. The needle in her hand hovered a fraction of an inch from piercing the rubber port. Panic spiked my heart rate.

I forced the words out, my voice pitching higher than intended. "I'm allergic to penicillin. I can't take that. Dr.

Thorne prescribed a different antibiotic!" Fire ripped down my throat. Like swallowing shattered glass.

I squeezed my eyes shut, my face contorting as a fresh wave of agony radiated from my surgical site. The nurse flinched.

The fluid bag slipped from her fingers and hit the metal medical cart with a dull smack. "There's no need to yell," she said, her tone dripping with unearned condescension. "You just had a tonsillectomy.

You shouldn't be straining your voice." She gestured to the fallen bag. "Penicillin fights inflammation. It helps your incisions heal.

Whatever other antibiotic you're talking about does the exact same thing, and the price difference is barely noticeable." A hollow, incredulous laugh scraped its way out of my mouth.

I was talking about a lethal allergy, and she was giving me a financial breakdown. Irritation burned hot in my chest, but the lingering anesthesia weighed down my limbs like lead.

I didn't have the energy to scream. I shoved myself up against the pillows.

Reaching over, I snatched the medical information card clipped to my bedrail and shoved it directly into her line of sight.

I tapped my fingernail hard against the red warning text. "You went to nursing school, right?

You know how to read the words 'Penicillin Allergy'?" I kept my eyes locked on hers. "It causes anaphylactic shock." "Death." I shouldn't have to explain that to a medical professional.

I tapped the card again. "Are you blind to this line right here?" The nurse's eyes welled with tears. Her fingers twisted the crisp white fabric of her scrubs. "Dr.

Thorne told me to remind you to rest your voice and to start your IV antibiotics. Don't make this hard for me.

I don't make the orders." She lifted her chin, defensive. "I'm the nurse. I know how this works.

Penicillin is an antibiotic—it's for postop inflammation." Exhaustion washed over me, heavy and suffocating.

I wanted to sink into the mattress and pass out just so I wouldn't have to deal with the sheer incompetence standing next to my bed.

Taking time off for this surgery was already putting me behind at work. If I didn't have a massive pitch meeting with Mr.

Harrington in three days, I wouldn't have rushed to get these damn tonsils out in the first place. I closed my eyes and dragged in a slow, steadying breath. Let it go.

We were both just trying to do our jobs. If I got the right meds sorted out, my throat would heal faster. Tanking the Harrington account would kill my promotion.

I opened my eyes, ready to try again. That's when I noticed the audience.

A cluster of older women—patients from down the hall—were hovering in the doorway, craning their necks to look inside. My raspy, elevated voice must have drawn them in.

A surgical mask covered half of the nurse's face, but her bloodshot, teary eyes told the whole story. To the clueless women in the hall, the scene was obvious.

They hadn't heard the actual argument, only the raised voices. Looking at the crying nurse shrinking away from my bed, their first instinct was exactly what I dreaded.

They thought I was just another entitled nightmare patient bullying the staff. Chapter 2 One of the busybodies at the door decided to play peacemaker. "Oh, stop all that fighting.

Everyone's having a hard time." "The poor girl is just an intern. She's basically paying to work here.

Cut her some slack if she made a little mistake." "Stop making a mountain out of a molehill. You just had surgery.

Get some rest." The nurse shot the older women a pitiful, grateful look. She dragged in a deep breath, like a martyr gathering her courage.

She snatched the penicillin off the cart and marched over to the IV pole. "Look, it's fine if you don't like how I work," she said, hooking the bag. "But I have a job to do.

It's my duty." She turned to me. "Lie back down. I'm starting your IV." My temples throbbed.

I frantically waved my hands, physically blocking her from getting closer. "Get the head nurse," I rasped out. "Or Dr. Thorne. My throat is killing me.

I'm done arguing." The nurse gripped the plastic tubing tight. She threw a desperate glance back at the doorway. The women didn't let her down. "Hey!

What is wrong with young people today?

So entitled!" one of them snapped. "She's bending over backward for you, and you're still treating her like garbage." "Running to the boss because you have zero actual skills.

You'll be broke your whole life with that attitude." Another grateful, wideeyed look from the nurse.

Emboldened by her backup, she ripped the cap off the spike and jammed it straight into the fluid bag.

She grabbed my arm, yanking it toward her to connect the line to the cannula in my hand. "I get you're uncomfortable, but don't play games with your health." She pushed the plastic tip closer. "If you don't take the penicillin, your throat will get infected.

You're only hurting yourself." My eyes went wide. I planted my hand flat against her shoulder and shoved her back hard. The exertion tore a raw cough from my throat.

Fresh razors sliced down my throat. I doubled over, dragging in ragged breaths, blood pounding hot in my ears. Before I could even stand up straight, the nurse dropped.

She collapsed onto the linoleum, hugged her knees to her chest, and burst into loud, theatrical sobs. "I'm begging you, just take the medicine.

Please stop causing a scene!" she wailed. "If the head nurse finds out, she'll scream at me again. I don't even get paid for this internship! I'm losing money to be here.

If I get written up, my life is over!" Her cries echoed off the sterile walls.

She started vomiting her entire tragic backstory onto the floor—an alcoholic dad, a delusional mom, a deadbeat brother, and poor, pitiful her.

Maybe the old me would have felt a twinge of pity. Now? I just wanted a doctor, the right damn antibiotics, and my vocal cords functional enough to nail my pitch.

People love an underdog. Especially older women with a raging savior complex. The group at the door squared their shoulders, stepping fully into the room to physically intervene.

The nurse peered up from her knees, eyes swimming in tears. I stood frozen by the bed. My sudden movement earlier had dislodged something.

Warm blood seeped from the edges of the IV cannula taped to the back of my hand. The pain in my throat was blinding.

A heavy block of frustration sat squarely in my chest, suffocating me. I literally couldn't speak, yet I was being roasted alive by a jury of strangers.

Pure exhaustion washed out the adrenaline. I was done reasoning with a brick wall. I turned my back on them and stepped toward the door. I was going to the nurses' station myself.

The nurse scrambled off the floor. She wiped her face, lunged forward, and grabbed me. Her grip was terrifyingly strong.

Her right hand clamped down hard over the back of my left hand. Right over the bleeding IV needle. Chapter 3 "You want the charge nurse? Fine." The nurse stood her ground.

Take the penicillin first. Once the bag is empty, I'll go get her." "You can do whatever you want to me then.

Just don't joke around with your health." A sharp, tearing pain ripped through the IV site on my hand. My teeth ground together. Heat flooded my face.

A thin ribbon of blood tracked down my skin. The nurse panicked. She snatched a square of medical gauze from the cart and pressed it hard over the bleeding, still scolding me. "See?

If you just took the IV, this wouldn't have happened. Now I have to place a new cannula. You're just making it worse for yourself." I was trapped in a voiceless hell.

Getting a sudden infection, needing surgery, falling behind on work—I could handle all of that. But dealing with this girl was pushing me to the brink.

I couldn't speak without risking my stitches. I locked eyes with her. Yanked my hand back. My gaze dropped to the plastic badge clipped to her scrub top. Kennedy. Nursing Intern.

I burned the name into my brain. I swallowed hard and pulled out my phone with my good hand to dial 911. Originally, I was going to let it slide.

Just ask the hospital to swap my nurse and be done with it. But Kennedy kept twisting my words, painting me as the villain.

My left hand was bleeding, so I swiped the screen with my right thumb. The second the home screen unlocked, Kennedy lunged. She snatched the phone right out of my grip.

She spun around, marched into the attached bathroom, and tossed it straight into the toilet bowl. She slammed the flush handle.

A mechanical roar swallowed my phone down the pipes. "Please stop delaying my work," she said, stepping back into the room. "I told you, you can file a complaint.

But you are taking this penicillin first." "You can play on your phone all you want when you're discharged. Let me fix your IV." White noise blasted through my skull. My phone.

The newest model I bought less than a week ago. Gone. That was two months' salary down the drain. All the client files I needed to organize during my recovery were saved on it.

Under my dead stare, reality seemed to finally click for Kennedy. She started to stutter. "Your… your health is the most important thing. You can just buy a new phone." "Lie down.

Let me fix the needle. I was just so worried about your recovery…" My limbs felt like wet cement. The room tilted. "I'm begging you. Just leave. Get the charge nurse.

Now." I pointed a shaking finger at the door, my voice a raw scrape. I just needed her out of my sight. If she stayed, I was going to physically rip her apart.

But my body didn't have the strength to back up the urge. Damage control. That was all that mattered now. The phone was gone, but I had my laptop in my overnight bag.

My messages and files synced to the cloud; I could still pull up the drafts from my team. As for the hardware… I dragged in a heavy breath and shot a tired glance at the bathroom.

Even if a plumber fished it out, it was biohazard waste. I'd bill the hospital for it later. Priority one: the IV. My PTO was razorthin.

Three days of antibiotics postop, discharge, then pitch to Mr. Harrington the very next morning.

Thinking about the timeline, I dragged my exhausted body past Kennedy and her fluid bag. "I'll say this one last time. I'm allergic to penicillin. It will kill me. Dr.

Thorne prescribed cephalosporin." "I don't care if you pulled the wrong bag or if he wrote the wrong script. I am done arguing." Kennedy shuddered under my stare.

Chapter 4 The busybody at the door clicked her tongue. "What a temper.

The little angel is trying to help, and you treat her like trash." I let out a dry, rattling laugh and fired right back. "Easy to preach when it's not your throat sliced open." I pointed at the bathroom. "Since you care so much, why don't you write me a check for the phone she just flushed?" The woman snapped her mouth shut.

She fanned herself aggressively with a hospital brochure. "That's none of my business. I didn't throw it in there." At the word "check," Kennedy froze.

She dropped to her knees with a heavy thud and started slapping her own cheeks. "I'm sorry!

If you hate my service, I apologize, okay?" Slap. "My mom paid so much money to get me this internship. If I fail, my life is over!" Slap. "I don't get paid!

I can't afford a new phone. My dad will kill me!" She collapsed into a puddle of loud, messy sobs. "Please…" My boots stayed rooted to the floor.

I didn't have the energy for this theater. "Get up," I rasped, rubbing my temples. "If you don't have the cash, write me an IOU.

You can pay it off later." I locked eyes with her. "I won't file a formal complaint. But you are off my case.

Send another nurse." "Have them doublecheck my chart, and get me the right IV. Are we clear?" Kennedy sniffled, scrambling off the floor.

She shoved the medical supplies back onto the cart. "Thank you. You're so kind." She wheeled the cart out. The peanut gallery in the hallway finally scattered.

I collapsed back onto the mattress and dragged in a ragged breath. My skull throbbed. My throat burned. My entire body ached. After a few minutes, a dry itch crawled up my throat.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, grabbed my plastic cup, and shuffled down the hall toward the water dispenser.

The heavy fire door in the stairwell was propped open a crack. The sharp stench of cheap cigarette smoke hit my nose. I reached out to pull the door shut.

A familiar voice drifted through the gap. "Bitch is so damn dramatic. Penicillin is an antibiotic. It does the exact same thing.

She's just too cheap to pay for the good stuff." "Now she's taking it out on me.

Corporate slaves think they're royalty the second they step into a hospital." "When I go back in to place her IV, I'm going to 'accidentally' bump the needle.

Let's see how much that hurts." My fingers turned to ice against the metal handle. I peered through the narrow opening.

Kennedy was leaning against the concrete wall, phone pressed to her ear, a cigarette dangling from her fingers. A cold, hollow smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth.

I thought I was giving a struggling kid a second chance. To her, I was just a corporate drone she could play for a fool. I released the handle without making a sound.

I walked to the dispenser, filled my cup, and headed back. On my way past the desk, I flagged down the triage nurse and told her to page my doctor immediately.

Back in my room, I forced down a sip of lukewarm water. The muscles in my neck seized. I had to be back in the office, ready to pitch, in exactly three days.

The thought tasted like ash. Ten minutes later, Dr. Thorne marched into my room. The charge nurse flanked his right.

Kennedy trailed behind them, her hands wringing the hem of her scrub top. She shot me a wide, pitiful look. Chapter 5 Dr.

Thorne slammed the prescription chart down right in front of Kennedy. He tore into her right there in my room.

Then, he ordered the charge nurse to personally handle my IV and made Kennedy swear she would pay for my ruined phone.

The charge nurse prepped the needle and asked for my left hand. Kennedy inched toward my bed, dragging her feet.

She shot me a coy, hesitant look. "Let me stand a little closer," she told the charge nurse. "I want to observe and learn." She took a step forward.

I immediately launched into a violent coughing fit. Dr. Thorne and the charge nurse jumped. They rushed to my bedside. I coughed hard enough to force real tears into my eyes.

I looked up at them, my face the picture of pure apology. "I'm sorry," I rasped out, clutching my chest. "I just get a little panicked when she comes near me now." I flicked my gaze to Kennedy.

She stood frozen. Even with the surgical mask covering half her face, her absolute outrage was obvious. A tiny smirk pulled at the corner of my mouth.

If she could weaponize her tears, so could I. The charge nurse ripped into her again. Kennedy shrank into the corner, nodding frantically and mumbling apologies.

Anyone walking by would think she was just a timid, bullied intern. I would have thought the exact same thing—if I hadn't heard her smoking in the stairwell.

The charge nurse was a pro. She secured the IV cannula in seconds, fast and precise. Within minutes, the fluid was dripping.

She apologized on Kennedy's behalf, promised to keep a tight leash on her, and dragged the girl out of the room.

Watching Kennedy shuffle out with her head down finally eased the tight knot in my chest. A while later, the IV bag was almost empty.

I hit the call button to get the needle removed. Five minutes passed. The doorway stayed empty. I checked the plastic tubing; only a few drops left. I hammered the button again.

Ten more minutes bled by. The bag was completely flat. Dark red blood began backing up into the clear tube. Irritation spiked hot in my veins. I mashed the button a third time.

Finally, Kennedy strolled in. She took her time walking over, her eyes lazily scanning the back of my hand.

A distinct gleam of amusement danced in her eyes. "Sorry about that," she said, her voice light. "It's busy out there." "I'm the only one at the desk." She leaned over. "Oh, wow.

You're bleeding into the tube." "Why didn't you call me sooner when the bag was empty?" Her smug, plastic smile set my blood on fire.

She stepped up to the bed and grabbed the medical tape. She dropped her voice to a harsh whisper. "Look at you. I just grabbed the wrong bag.

Did you really have to go crying to the doctor over something so small?" She ripped the tape back. "I got chewed out. You happy now?" My jaw clenched hard enough to crack a tooth.

Just as I opened my mouth, Kennedy's hand jerked. Searing pain sliced across the back of my hand. The needle ripped out awkwardly.

She let out a loud, theatrical gasp and stumbled backward. She blinked hard, and thick tears instantly spilled down her cheeks. "I'm so sorry!

I didn't mean to!" she cried loudly. "Please don't tell the charge nurse! If I mess up again, they'll fire me!" My brows snapped together. The last thread of my patience severed.

I thought we were done. She had apologized. She had promised to pay for the phone. I gave her an out. But Kennedy didn't want an out.

She was using my shredded throat as a weapon, banking on the fact that I couldn't scream back. I was done playing nice. No more second chances. I reached over to the nightstand.

My friends had dropped off a spare phone during visiting hours. I grabbed it, unlocked the screen, and punched in 911. Kennedy froze. The fake tears vanished instantly.

Her voice spiked into a shrill screech. "You're calling the cops over this?!" She pointed at my bleeding hand. "I just nicked your skin! I'll put a bandage on it!

Are you psycho?" Chapter 6 I let out a sharp breath through my nose and kept my mouth shut. There was no point talking to a brick wall.

Kennedy clearly didn't understand basic logic, and speaking would just shred my throat and slow down my recovery. The police station was right next door to the hospital.

The cops arrived fast. When they pushed the door open, Kennedy was still actively berating me for being petty.

At the sight of the uniforms, her eyes bugged out of her skull. "You actually called the cops?!" I ignored her.

I typed out my statement on the spare phone and shoved the screen toward the officers. After reading the summary, one of the cops shot Kennedy a baffled look.

I could practically hear the gears turning in his head: She looks like a normal kid, how is she this dangerously stupid? They didn't just take my typed word for it.

They stepped out into the hall to question the triage nurses and the patients lingering nearby. Everything corroborated my statement. Intentional harm.

Destruction of private property. More than enough to lock her up for a few days. Kennedy froze.

She desperately grabbed the edge of the charge nurse's scrubs. "Please, you went to elementary school with my mom!

Say something to them!" She pointed a frantic finger at me. "I swear I didn't mean it!" "She's the one acting like a doctor, saying penicillin isn't an antibiotic!

She got me yelled at!

I just wanted to teach her a tiny lesson to blow off some steam!" The charge nurse pried Kennedy's fingers off her uniform and stepped back, her expression hardening into stone.

Kennedy lost it. She stomped her feet, panic vibrating through her bones as the reality set in. The cops cuffed her and marched her out.

Between the fines, the police record, and reimbursing my ruined phone, she was done.

The second the heavy door clicked shut behind her, the suffocating tension in my chest finally evaporated. After a full day of absolute chaos, I could finally rest.

With Kennedy in holding, she wouldn't set foot in this hospital for days. By the time she got out, I'd already be discharged.

Even if administration didn't fire her immediately, she was out of my hair. The relief was intoxicating. I pulled my laptop out of my overnight bag and opened my pitch deck.

If I nailed this meeting with Mr. Harrington, that Team Lead promotion was mine next month. I shut out the hospital noise and buried myself in the data.

By the time I checked my screen again, it was past midnight. I powered down the laptop, washed up, and passed out. A dreamless, dead sleep.

I didn't wake up until the morning shift nurse came in to swap my IV bags. While the fresh antibiotics dripped into my vein, I scrolled through my spare phone.

A text popped up from a colleague. A video link. "Is this you?" My brow furrowed. I tapped the link.

A familiar, sickeningly pitiful voice instantly blasted from the speaker. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to!" "Please don't tell the charge nurse!

If I mess up again, they'll fire me!" What the hell? Someone was recording yesterday? I expanded the hidden video caption.

The text glared back at me. [Corporate Team Lead throws massive tantrum over minor nurse mistake.] My stomach dropped.

I tapped the uploader's profile and scrolled to the bottom of their grid. There it was. A selfie of Kennedy and another girl. The video was spliced perfectly.

It started right at Kennedy's theatrical apology and cut exactly when I snapped and grabbed my phone to dial 911. Zero context.

Zero mention of the lethal allergy, the bleeding cannula, or the flushed iPhone. Just a "minor mistake." A harsh, dry laugh scraped out of my throat.

Kennedy had planned to weaponize the internet against me. She wanted me doxed and canceled before I even knew what hit me.

Too bad I bypassed the drama and went straight to the authorities. A cold smirk stretched across my face. I tapped the comment icon. Chapter 7 [Everyone's like this now.

Making a federal case out of nothing. They think they're royalty at home, so they treat service workers like absolute garbage.] [Being a nurse right now is a nightmare.

Minimum wage for maximum abuse.] A few commenters weren't buying the act. [Where's the context? What exactly was the 'minor mistake'?

Let's hear the full story.] [Also, you said 'mess up AGAIN.' Means it's not your first strike, bestie.] The two sides tore each other apart in the replies.

The extreme ones took it a step further. They doxxed me. [This bitch is a Team Lead in the marketing department at Apex Group. I went to middle school with her.

She's always been a psycho.] The internet was always like this.

The second you go viral, every middle school lab partner, high school frenemy, and college roommate crawls out of the woodwork to claim they knew you. I let out a dry scoff.

I was just mapping out my next move when my spare phone buzzed. My boss's name flashed on the screen. "Sloane, what exactly is going on over there?" "Mr.

Harrington just messaged me. He said someone blasted you all over the internet.

Some young girl just showed up at the lobby causing a massive scene, screaming that you bullied her." "You know how Mr. Harrington operates.

His company is obsessed with PR and character. You need to fix this. Immediately." "Or we're pulling you off the account and sending someone else." Ice water flooded my veins.

Kennedy actually went to my office? A heavy block of pure rage settled in my chest. What an absolute joke.

I come in for a routine surgery and end up trapped with a sociopath who couldn't read a medical chart. She put my life on the line, and now she was tanking my career.

My teeth ground together. Once this pitch was over and my throat healed, I was buying out a whole store of sage to burn the bad juju out of my apartment.

I shoved the frustration down. I promised my boss the pitch would go off without a hitch and hung up. I dropped back against the pillows.

I stared at the death threats flooding my screen. I thought about my promotion. I shot up from the mattress. No more playing the victim. She wanted to play dirty?

Two could play that game. Kennedy wanted a war. I was done showing mercy. I grabbed the spare phone and called my friend. I needed her to run to the police precinct for me.

Then I walked down to the nurses' station. I faked a panic attack about losing my wallet and begged the triage nurse to pull the security footage from the stairwell.

I locked myself back in my room. I popped open my laptop. I spliced the police report, the medical chart, and the security footage into a single, seamless video.

At 7:00 PM—prime commuting hours—I hit upload. I watched the progress bar inch toward 100%. A cold smirk stretched my lips. She wanted the court of public opinion?

I was giving her a frontrow seat. The upload finished. I snapped the laptop shut. The heavy wooden door clicked and swung open. Kennedy stood in the frame.

She wasn't in her scrubs. She wore a pristine white sundress. Her features were pulled tight.

Her heels clicked aggressively against the linoleum as she marched straight up to my bed.

She practically vibrated with toxic energy. "See the video?" she asked. "How does it feel having the whole internet dragging your name?

That's just the appetizer." "You care so much about your little corporate job.

Being unemployed is going to hurt, isn't it?" Her features warped, the fake sweetness peeling back to reveal a sharp sneer. "I don't even know why you have it out for me.

It was just a stupid, cheap phone. Calling the cops over it? Please." "My mom has serious connections. The hospital isn't even firing me.

Just wait until I'm really done with you." Chapter 8