Summer Time
The charge nurse looked at the computer screen and continued, “Summer, this is your first patient. His name is David Stover, 23 years old, was driving on interstate 78, cut off by a tractor trailer, crashed and sustained a traumatic brain injury, severe intracranial hemorrhage, broken pelvis, multiple cervical fractures, flatlined on the way to the hospital revived with defibrillator, minimal brain function, placed on hospice care on Wednesday. He doesn’t seem to have any family or friends.” “Where are his parents?” I asked. “He doesn’t have any, “she replied. “Mom gave him up at birth, raised in a series of foster homes. He aged out of the system at 18. We don't know where he has been living since. The address on his driver’s license turned out to be a mail drop.” “Has anyone visited?” “Two of his coworkers from the auto repair shop where he worked came in once, but they didn’t know where he lived either.” “I guess we’re his family now, “I said wistfully. I