2019-09-13 - Shrimpocalypse Recovery Ward

Dylan has been setup in one of the recovery rooms, left under observation for at least twenty four hours. It mostly centers around the fact that he has a concussion and was still groggy when he came in, never mind the dislocated shoulder and handful of places on his scalp and left arm. The other thing of ntoe in his chart, given the fact he's been a townie all of his life, and surely there are medical records on such? Is that Dylan, according to the notes, suffers from some childhood trauma, likely impacted by a premature birth, that resulted in him only ever speaking one or two words at a clip, for whatever reason. It really sounded like the doctors never could fully figure it all out!

The patient is currely seated mostly upright in his bed, with a sketchpad in his lap. Thankfully he's right handed, else they'd have a really irritable artist on their hands. Instead, he's busy sketching, passing the time by idly while waiting for his next checkup.

Abby comes into the room with a light knock to give some advance warning before she wanders in. "Hello!" She offers as soon as she's inside, with a bright and friendly smile opening up for Dylan. The nurse is wearing pale blue scrubs with fluffy little white clouds on them. The clouds are smiling. They are happy little clouds. She's also got on comfy clogs and her hair held back in a short ponytail. She's hands free right now, after pausing to check something on the chart by the bed. "How are you feeling?" The question is as much friendly conversation as it is a professional query, eyebrows rising to give the patient a meaningful look. Then she glances at the sketch. "Oh! You are at the... donuts place, weren't you?"

Dylan watches the nurse that comes in, or more so all of those fluffy white clouds. His head tilts quizically one way and then another, before a big and broad, dimple producing smile is created, as if returning all those beaming, cheerful cloud-smiles. It's only then he looks up to Abby as she mentions the donut place, and after a couple of blinks, the light of recognition goes off. "Double chocolate!" He chimes out, never having actually gotten her name. That sheer amount of enthusiasm is enough to make him immediately wince, those features crinkling up as he tries to peer upwards at his head. "Feel runover." Comes his conclusion as to his current state of being treated. "Nurse?" He inquires about the obvious, a look of mock innocence crossing his features as he puts his pencil down, all too happy for a brief interlude. "Hobby?" As if, sure, people just randomly come around with cloud smiling scrubs for the fun of it!

Abby touches a finger to her lips at the mention of double chocolate, "Shhhh! Not here. We don't want everyone to know that... some people think I'm doing keto." She lowers her voice playfully, pretending to whisper, like she's letting Dylan in on a secret. Then she looks at the chart nearby, thinking for a moment, eyes moving from it to the patient again. "Are you feeling any better? Is the drawing going okay, any vision problems?" She asks, but pauses at the question she gets. Then she looks down at herself in the scrubs, like she's seeing them for the first time, and shrugs, hands spreading out at her sides. "Apparently! They let me into the secret back rooms and everything."

At that stage whisper, his eyes go as wide as saucers, and the nod he gives her is far too dramatically serious to be taken, well, seriously. "BBQ Lady!" He chimes out, not that there is anyone around to really overhear, given he doesn't shout it. "Better. Hurts," His hand lifts to his head in indication, but as for the ability to draw? He will let her be the judge of that. Up that sketchpad is propped and flashed her way. First, it is quite good. No vision problems here! Second, he's clearly very imaginative. The scene depicted looks like something from a movie if Tim Burton was asked to make The Little Mermaid. Crabs in dashing tri-corner hats ride atop shrimp boats - no, literally, SHRIMP boats, completely with shrimpapults on them - which in turn are riding high on waves. It's a whole little armada of the things, with each one being pulled by a flouder as the means of propulsion. "Luuuuccckky," He teases as she talks of being let in the secret rooms, as if this is the greatest honor in the world. "Gunna live?" He finally asks, that lopsided smile showing he knows it isn't quite that dire for him. Probably.

Abby aims a finger at Dylan and winks to share in the conspiracy when he calls her BBQ Lady. Her attention is back on his chart, though. "Right. It'll probably hurt a while longer, I'm afraid. We're hoping for steady improvement, though," she offers him with a small reassuring smile before turning her attention to the drawing. "That's - a shrimp? That looks like fun! Clearly, your drawing ability hasn't suffered one bit, has it? Just don't tire yourself out." The nurse makes a note, after saying this, and smiles, letting out a loud and overwrought sigh. "I'm afraid so. You're stuck here a while longer, might even run the risk of running into me at BBQ places again. So, I have to get your blood pressure now, so just relax..."

It's a rather dour look he casts towards Abby as she talks about him tiring himself out as he lays up in that bed, but there is a twitch of a smile that blossoms to life to show it isn't real. "Memories fuzzy," He says about how it all happened, and he starts to give a shrug at that before the pain of his left shoulder becomes immediately clear, and out a lumbering sigh comes. "Brisket sounds," Mmmm comes the rumbling noise fo approval at that food, a hopeful look like the nurse might well smuggle some in. Still, he's a mostly well behaved patient, his good arm propped up and at the ready, and his head dips into a knowing nod at what comes next. "Your name?" He finally inquiries, figuring that BBQ Lady probably isn't something one should go around calling someone else all the time.

"I'm sorry. I guess a concussion will do that sometimes," Abby says on the subject of fuzzy memories. She grabs a cart with the blood pressure monitor and brings it closer, then carefully gets the cuff in place on the offered arm with quiet, practiced gestures, making a soft humming sound of her own at the mention of brisket, even if the keto thing is a ruse. "Abby. And I guess nurse Abby /does/ sound kind of close to nurse hobby, doesn't it? So the confusion is understandable." She gives him another smile then goes quiet, watching the vitals on the monitor as it measures his blood pressure. She also checks her phone while she's standing there, and takes another look at the chart, humming to herself.

"Nurse Abby," He repeats to commit it to memory, letting loose a small bark of laughter as she draws the parallels to that name and hobby, no remorse shown at all even when it causes him to wince in slight pain from his head. A huff of breath comes out, clearly annoyed at the situation, but while she tends to her duties, he watches. "Big chart," He finally comments with a wry smile, a glimmer of mischief in those eyes, "Here often," Before he makes a motion of a height much smaller than his own, implying as a kid, no doubt for that verbal disorder, whatever it is. Over he peers, looking down at his arm in that sling, a small frown curling to the corners of his mouth.

Abby keeps quiet for now until the machine beeps. She smiles quietly on him, offering a sympathetic look at the mention of coming here often. "I had to come here a couple of times when I was little," she comments, then pulls the cart closer. After writing down the results, she removes the cuff from around his arm and returns to her cheerful tone, "Fortunately, these days, I'm only here to work. I don't think I could just sit in a bed not doing anything!" She says as if that's a playful accusation, then looks around the room. "It's a little different. But maybe I'm just bigger."

Dylan's response to that playful accusation is an ever so mature sticking out of his tongue towards Abby, and even lifting his one good hand to make moose antlers that waggle at her. Those eyes shift to glance around the room, head dipping one way and then another in consideration. "Always perspective," He comments, for whatever that might mean. His fingers lower so he can thumb through his sketch book, before finally finding one page in particular he'd wanted. This is carefully torn out, and then handed over to her. "Yours." He concludes with a sage nod for that good cheer she's spread. It's a picture that captures the outside, and more than that, a hopeful expression that mirrors those smiling clouds. The landscape is realistic, the skies cloudy, but here and there? Sunlight peeks through in brilliant rays, illuminating a few of the people that he's captured coming and going from the hospital. It's hard to tell any details of who they are, save for from their scrubs? It's workers coming on or off their shift.

Abby pushes the cart away and checks the watch on her wrist. "I know! Though I'm pretty sure there's been some renovations since. Maybe the rooms really /are/ smaller. Not all of them. And the paint's different in a couple of places, at least, and sometimes that could make things look bigger," she seems to have a tendency to ramble, piling the words on with a smile, but she goes quiet to look at the page he tears out. "Oh?" She arches an eyebrow sharply, but reaches out for the page to look it over. "This is really good. Thank you so much! I love it. I hope you're doing this professionally, or studying for it or something." She waves a hand about in a vague gesture, alluding to some mysterious artistic career she doesn't really have a very firm grasp on.

A 'hmmm' of consideration comes from him as he looks around, considering the paint, the walls, everything as if somehow he could see into the past, but nope. He cant say for sure what is different. "Welcome," He comments about her thanks for the page, and it garners a beaming smile from the man as he answers, "Art major," It's a twitch of thsoe features,a long pause as if he's trying to get something else out, and only after a handful have passed does he start another thought, "Making comic." Not exactly a scintillating art career, but hey, what can one expect in this town! "Good nurse." He finally concludes, sincerity in his voice, and the dip of his head gives the unspoken thanks that his voice can't quite form as that third word.

Abby holds the page up, then holds it carefully in her hand at her side. "I'll go tuck this away somewhere safe before doing the rest of my rounds." Her expression brightens up when Dylan says he's an art major. At least, he says the words art major, and Abby infers the rest. "Oh, that's good. I'm sure you'll do great," she offers with a smile, then tilts her head curiously. "Comics? Like, Marvel superheroes or other kind of stuff?" She wonders, then adds a moment later, "Te other one with the shrimp boat thing would probably make for a fun comic!" Her eyes turn aside, like she's imagining it already. The praise makes her turn a slightly self-deprecating glance down at herself, but her smile is genuinely warm. "Thank you. There's a lot of good people here, I just try to keep up."

It's the thought of the shrimp boat comic that has a finger extending, pointing to her that yes, something like that? Will definately be making it in. "Anti-heroes," Comes his clipped explination, as best as he can, before he promises, "Show sometime." Probably at that mythical bbq place they've already referenced. His eye dance with delight, crinkles forming around the edges as he slumps back into his bed. Dylan's eyes watch that reaction to his compliment, a warm smile on his featuers as his head bobs up and down for a moment, not quite as dramatically as it might normally given that head injury. "Welcome."

"Hmmm," Abby makes a curious sound at the mention of anti-heroes, seeming intrigued for a moment, but just smiles wider when Dylan says he'll show it to her sometime. "Sure, I look forward to it! I hope there's evil shrimp. Or good shrimp! Neutral shrimp probably wouldn't make for a very interesting story," she rambles a little more, then puts something down on the chair. She looks at the cart, then looks around, as if she's forgotten something, before finally digging into a pocket in her scrubs. "If your head's any worse, it says here I can give you something for the pain. It's basically just Tylenol. If you can live with it, then let's wait a while longer, but if it's keeping you from resting... I mean, it's obviously not keeping you from drawing."

"Evil," Comes Dylan's immediate response, a touch of distaste in his mouth for some reason with a little hrmph of his voice, features crinkling up in a quite expressive look. His head tips one way and then the other before a puff of air comes out as he considers just how bad it is, "Wait. Rest." He confirms what he'll do, just to see if that helps at all with the whole process. There is a quirk of his mouth, a warm and sincere smile cast her way, knowing she needs to get onto her rounds. "Thanks, Abby." He says once more, before tugging that sketchpad onto his lap, though it isn't yet flipped open, giving hope to the thought he'll try and get a nap in rather than overdo it all.

Abby's eyes widen slightly at that quick assessment of the shrimp's moral standing, her smile turning a little crooked. "Oh. Dastardly shrimp!" She shakes her fist in the air these hypothetical shrimp, then flashes him a smile. "Sure. Well, I'll peek in when I'm done with these rounds and see if you need anything for the pain or not. But the doctor should be checking in later anyway, so they can probably take care of that. The more you rest, the sooner you'll be out on your feet!" This advice is delivered with a big smile and a thumbs up, then she waves the page with the drawing again. "Thank you!" And then she backs away from the room. Wait. She stops by the door, goes back, drags out the cart behind her. "Oops."