It had been a long night, the kind where you start to think that all hospital coffee is decaffeinated and you start hallucinating that the beeping monitors are playing Beethoven’s 5th.

Jake was checking vital signs when he heard it: the distinct, unmistakable sound of squeaky wheels, but they were moving way too fast.

He poked his head around the corner just in time to see two patients, IV poles in tow, racing each other down the hallway.

Mr. Henderson (Bed 14) was in the lead, using his gown like a cape. Mrs. Lee (Bed 16) was hot on his heels, yelling, “YOU’RE GOING DOWN, OLD MAN!”

“GUYS,” Jake shouted, sprinting after them, “THIS IS NOT THE INDY 500!”

By the time security helped wrangle the patients back into their rooms, Mr. Henderson had tripped and fell on his knees, and Mrs. Lee’s IV tubing got tangled up and the cannula was yanked out of her AC. Jake had learned two things:

1. IV poles can reach up to 15 mph.
2. Racing should be forbidden in the ER.

Jake placed his WOW across Beds 14 and 16 swore to never turn his back on those two again.

It started with a call to triage:

“Patient arriving to Trauma Bay 2.” Also heard whispering in the background: “Also, is that a chicken?”

Jake, a seasoned ER nurse and part-time bird negotiator, stood ready. In burst a man yelling, “HE NEEDS HELP!” while cradling a live, angry rooster.

After clarifying that he (the man, not the bird) was the patient, they managed to separate him from the chicken, who proceeded to chase a CNA down the hallway like it was some kind of barnyard horror movie.

Turns out, the man had been trying to wrestle the chicken into a “funny Thanksgiving costume” when he slipped, faceplanted into a fence, and gashed his forehead open.

The chicken? Completely unharmed. The man? Seven stitches and a “no pet wrestling” warning.

The real tragedy? Jake spent the next two hours picking feathers off the trauma room floor while the chicken screamed bloody murder from a cardboard box.

At least it wasn’t a goose this time. Jake hated geese.