“Col?ea’s full.”
“I don’t need a doctor,” I told him. “My friend was shot last night in University Square. I think he may be at Col?ea.”
He flapped a hand toward his car. The back was riddled with bullet holes. I jumped in. The driver sped down side streets, avoiding the city center.
“What’s been happening?” I asked him.
“The Securitate are working in small groups, bands of assassins,” said the driver. “They’ve shot hundreds of civilians. I’m told they’re taking identity papers and getting rid of the bodies.”
“They shot my friend from a window.”
“Yeah, there are rumors they’re using infrared scopes. No one knows what to believe. Don’t stand out in the open. Find cover.”
We turned a corner and saw a young man stumbling on the sidewalk, holding his face. We swerved to a stop.
“My eye. They attacked me with a water cannon,” he cried. “It’s bad.” He moved his hand and his glassy eyeball was dangling from the socket.
“No! Keep pressure on it.” The driver jumped out of the car and sent the boy into the back seat. He screamed in pain.
“Just hang on,” I told him. “We’re heading to the hospital. We’re almost there.”
“As soon as they bandage me up, I need to get back. We set up a new barricade. I have to help my friends. Will you wait for me?” he asked.
I had no time to respond.
The driver pulled up to the hospital. I tossed a package of Kents on the dash. “Mersi.” Trails of people snaked around the perimeter of the building: Lines of injured.
Lines of Romanians giving blood to help the injured.
Lines of student volunteers from the university.
I steered the young man into the line for the wounded.
“Wait for me,” he repeated. “Once they bandage my eye, I have to get back.”
People ran by us shouting and carrying bloodied bodies. Had someone helped Luca?
“I’m sorry. I can’t wait for you,” I told the boy. “I’m looking for my friend.”
An orderly walked the line, inspecting wounds. He took one look at the dangling eyeball and pulled us from the group. “Can you help him inside?” the orderly asked me.
We banged through the doors, pushing across tile floors patterned in a mosaic of bloody footprints. The orderly took our names and returned with a nurse.
“Your eye, come with me,” said the nurse. She whisked him out of line.
“I just came for a bandage!” protested the boy. “I need to get back to the barricade.”
“My friend was shot. Can you tell me if he’s here?” I asked the orderly.
“I’m too busy. Ask at reception.”
“Show me where that is,” I begged. “Please.”
He pointed in a random direction and disappeared into the crowd.
I made my way through a crush of people to a desk. A woman at the front began to shake. “No. NO! Please, not my boy,” she pleaded. She slid down in a heap and someone carried her to a chair.
“Please, help me,” I pleaded to the desk clerk. “My friend Luca Oprea was shot last night. He’s seventeen years old and I think he was brought here.”
The clerk sifted through papers. “What’s the name?”
“Oprea, Luca.”
His finger stopped on the page.
“I’m very sorry—”
No.
Luca.
No.
“I’m very sorry, but you can’t see him. He’s in the critical care unit.”
“What?” I croaked.
“You can’t see him.”
“But he’s here? He’s alive?”
“I don’t have details. If you need dressing for your own wounds, there’s a volunteer triage down the back hallway. Next, please . . .”
He waved me aside, and I was propelled down the hall with a crowd.
Luca was here. In critical condition. What should I do? Should I wait for him?
I made my way to the triage area. University students were set up with makeshift supplies. A young guy inspected my nose. “Can’t really do anything for that, a doctor might have to re-break it.”
I unzipped my coat. “My ribs, can you wrap me up in something tighter?”
“Don’t think we should. You need to breathe deeply or you’ll get pneumonia. I can give you some pain meds.”
“I’ll take them.” And I did. “How long have you been here?” I asked.
“Since nine last night. Hospital staff is totally overwhelmed. Many have never seen gunshot wounds, let alone treated them.”