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There's blood on her hands and she knows she needs to wash them. She should go get a quick and dirty diagnostic run, make sure she doesn't need any hypospray vaccines. They take it for granted, the miracle of modern medicine and what it means — that you can rush to press your hands against a stab wound without gloves and it'll likely be okay — but she still thinks it's funny that all the advances in the world can't keep the human body from making a mess all over the floor of a hospital lobby at 4 in the morning.
A giggle starts to rise and she pushes it down. It really isn't that funny. She's been on shift since 8 am, had been just about ready to clock out when the bleeding guy staggered through the door. I am very tired, she thinks precisely, and this is what the start of hysteria feels like. He's been taken to surgery. Her part is done. She should wash her hands. She shouldn't laugh. She should go outside in case she does. There's air out there; it won't smell so much like blood.
She's distantly aware of the head nurse calling her name as she walks through the lobby and out the door. It's summer in Atlanta, dreadful hot as she'd just written to her dad, but 4 am feels okay. 4 am is hazy dark, like the sky is maybe getting an idea about sunrise, and cool enough that she doesn't immediately start to sweat. There's a bench off to the right; sitting down sounds like a good idea. I think I like 4 am, she thinks, messy stab wounds aside. There are no stars, of course, but she can tilt her head back and pretend.