The emergency room buzzed with chaos that did nothing to ease Miranda's throbbing headache. A symphony of misery surrounded her—wailing infants, belligerent drunk college students arguing with the staff, and some unfortunate soul who'd managed to superglue his hand to a beer bottle. Just another typical night in the city's busiest ER.
Miranda lay on an uncomfortable gurney in what passed for an examination room—really just a glorified space divided by flimsy curtains that failed spectacularly at muffling the surrounding commotion. Nolan occupied the space beside her, his face twisted in frustration as he argued with a young doctor about the necessity of X-rays for his shoulder.
"I've told you already, my shoulder is fine," Nolan insisted, his patience clearly wearing thin.
The doctor, looking increasingly exasperated, gestured to Nolan's injury. "Sir, you have an obvious dislocation and there's active bleeding. We need to—"
