"Alrighty, you've been discharged and we can't let you sleep here all night long. Sorry, but you've got to go," I say.
She responds, "where is the nearest bus stop?" I answer that it's about a quarter mile away, north up the street, and kindly hold the door open for her. "Can you push me there in a wheelchair so I don't have to walk?" she asks.
"Fine bitch," she responds, "then I need a coffee with cream and sugar, and a sandwich bag."
Security is next to enter the scene.
"Imma mess you up, I know where you live! I'm gonna give you Ebola!" she shouts as security escorts her out on foot. The sound of her screeching fades as the doors slide shut, and I wearily sign up my name to the next patient coming into my group. Abdominal pain, the chief complaint says. And in the triage note I see their first request is for some juice.