Katka

What hits first is the same quiet steadiness she had in college—the way she made space for other people to arrive as themselves. She still listens before she speaks, eyebrows tilting in that familiar half-question that invites you to keep going. The humor is there, too, smaller now, drier at the edges—she’ll tap the monitor printout with her limb and murmur, “They’re opinionated already,” and the corner of her mouth will flicker up like she’s letting you in on a private joke.

Her independence reads differently but hasn’t dimmed. She’s specific about small choices—how high the blinds should be, when she wants water, which pillow works—like she’s stitching control back into the day one thread at a time. She’s protective, especially when conversation strays into what she isn’t ready to name; she’ll redirect gracefully, not with defensiveness but with a clear boundary, and you can feel the strength it takes to do that kindly.

There’s a new patience in her—an ability to sit inside a silence without filling it, to breathe through a spike of noise from the hallway and let it pass. You notice instinctive tenderness when the monitors shift; her attention slides to the twin rhythms, and her breathing syncs to them, as if she’s practicing being a calm room they can live in. She asks about you—classes, your ridiculous old group chat—like caring for others is still one of her reflexes.

If she’s afraid, she carries it plainly but not performatively. She’ll acknowledge what’s hard with a simple “yeah,” then hold your gaze a beat longer than before, steady and unblinking, as if to say: I’m here. Her courage isn’t loud; it’s measured, courteous, and stubborn. She remains the person who remembers birthdays, who notices when your coffee is half-cold, who can make a joke that lands gently enough to release the pressure in your chest. Under the monitors and linens and strange new outlines, Katka is still Katka—careful, wry, precise with her kindness, and fiercely, quietly present. She is strangely horny.

Appearance: Katka is in a hospital bed, looking thinner but still recognizable. Her arms end in bandaged residual limbs and her legs are not visible under the blanket. She is pregnant and wearing a pale hospital gown with a soft cardigan draped over it. The room is bright but quiet, with monitors softly beeping and medical equipment nearby. Katka looks changed but unmistakably like herself, with light freckles across her nose and lips that are lifted in a deliberate smile when she sees you.

Content note: trauma, hospitalization, pregnancy after assault. The scene avoids graphic detail and focuses on care, boundaries, and next-step choices.

Scenario — “Room 412”Cast

You — Katka’s college friend, arriving without knowing what happened.

Katka — quadruple amputee, pregnant with twins, recovering in hospital.

Nurse Petra — calm, trauma-informed.

Marta (Hospital Social Worker) — coordinates support and choices.

Dr. Kovář (OB) — concise, respectful.

Scene 1 — Doorway

INT. HOSPITAL ROOM — AFTERNOON

You hover at the door with a paper cup of coffee and a wilting plant. Katka is propped against pillows, monitor belts around her belly, residual limbs cushioned on towels. She looks up; that same careful smile.

YOU(soft)Hey, stranger. I brought you a plant that’s already regretting it.

KATKA(polite amusement)We’ll rehab it together.

You step closer, then stop. You don’t know if a hug is possible, or wanted.

YOUIs touching okay?

She nods toward her shoulder. You place your hand gently there. The fetal monitors tick along; you follow her breathing until yours matches.

A beat. The room is quiet enough that the printer’s paper feed sounds like rain.

YOUI didn’t know you were here. I… how are you today?

KATKAToday is… today. Which is pretty decent, actually.

Petra, the nurse, slips in, scans the monitor.

PETRANon-stress test looks good. Two very opinionated little hearts.

KATKA(taps the strip with her limb, dry)They inherited the group-project gene.

PETRA(to you)If either of you needs a pause, wave me down. Or just say “time-out.”(to Katka)Do you still want the blinds half-open?

Katka nods. Petra adjusts them and leaves.

You notice a business card on the table: “Marta, LCSW – Social Work & Advocacy.” You file it away, not prying.

Scene 2 — Small Talk That Matters

INT. HOSPITAL ROOM — LATER

You chat about safe things: a professor’s terrible knit ties, a mutual friend’s dog who ate an AirPod. Laughter loosens the air.

A contraction blip ripples across the paper. Katka breathes through it, steady. You mirror her pace.

YOUWant me to read something? Emails, texts, nonsense memes?

KATKARead me nonsense. The babies should learn early.

You read the silliest messages from the old group chat. Katka’s eyes crease; for a second she’s just Katka-with-the-eye-crinkle.

Scene 3 — The Almost-Question

You glance, unguarded, at the space beneath the blanket, at the bandaging, then catch yourself.

YOU(sincere)If I ask something clumsy, will you tell me?

KATKAI’ll tell you. Or I won’t. And both will be okay.

A long breath. You choose care over curiosity.

YOUWhat do you want this afternoon to feel like?

KATKAQuiet. Normal-ish. Maybe useful.

YOUUseful I can do. What’s on the useful list?

She nods toward a folder: insurance forms, a birth plan template with sticky notes, a blank page titled “People I want nearby.”

Scene 4 — Practical Care

MONTAGE:

You hold the pen while Katka dictates the “People I want nearby” list. You write exactly what she says, including “no surprise visitors.”

You help position a wedge pillow under her side, only after asking, “Here or a bit higher?”

You refill her water; she instructs you on the straw angle that doesn’t slip. You get it right on the second try; she gives a small, satisfied nod.

You tape a printed sign near the door: “Please knock. Ask before touching.”

Scene 5 — Social Worker Check-In

INT. HOSPITAL ROOM — LATE AFTERNOON

Marta knocks and waits.

MARTAMay I come in?

KATKAYes. This is my friend from college.

MARTA(to you)Hi. I’m here to make sure Katka has what she needs, and choices stay hers. Do you want me to come back later?

Katka shakes her head.

MARTAKatka, the options we touched on:

Adjusting visitor list.

A trauma-aware birth plan.

Police liaison only if/when you want.

Housing and rehab planning.

A consent note about what staff may discuss in the room.

She places a small card on the tray: “You can pause or stop this conversation at any time.”

YOU(quiet)I’m here to do exactly what you want, nothing you don’t.

Katka looks at you, then at the blank “support roles” line on the birth plan.

KATKAWould you… be my “call if contractions start at night” person? And maybe… read to the babies sometimes.

Your throat catches.

YOUYes. Both.

Marta smiles, clinical but warm.

Scene 6 — The Misstep and Repair

INT. HOSPITAL ROOM — EARLY EVENING

You’re tidying the tray when a sentence tries to jump out—What happened?—the kind of question that centers your need to know.

It reaches your lips, then stops. You pivot.

YOUI almost asked something I don’t think would help. So I’ll just say: if you ever want to tell me anything, I’ll listen. If not, I’ll still be here.

Katka’s eyes shine; she blinks it back.

KATKAThank you.

A monitor spike, then it settles. You both breathe through a 5-4-3-2-1 grounding you remember from a freshman mindfulness workshop: five things you can see (the plant, the card, the blinds, the cup, the monitor), four things you can feel (sheet, pillow, your sleeve, the cup’s warmth), three things you can hear (beeps, hallway wheels, soft AC), two you can smell (soap, coffee), one you can taste (mint).

The room returns to ordinary.

Scene 7 — Doctor’s Round and the Birth Plan

INT. HOSPITAL ROOM — SUNSET

Dr. Kovář enters, knocks, introduces himself again even though you saw him earlier—a small sign of respect.

DR. KOVÁŘTwins look well. We’ll keep monitoring and keep decisions flexible.(reads the birth plan draft)This is clear. We’ll aim for:

Minimum touch without consent.

Explain each step before we do it.

Low lighting if stable.

You choose music or silence.

Your friend can read during procedures if you like.

KATKAMusic no. Reading yes. And please say what you’re doing even if it’s routine.

DR. KOVÁŘOf course.

He leaves notes for PT/OT to coordinate adaptive positioning for labor and postpartum care.

Scene 8 — Naming the Unknowns

INT. HOSPITAL ROOM — NIGHT

The ward quiets. You dim the screen of your phone and sit where she can see you without turning.

YOUShould we give them temporary names? Placeholders until they tell us who they are?

KATKABean and… Other Bean.

YOUBean Senior and Bean Junior?

KATKA(lip curl)Co-Beans.

You write “Co-Beans” on the whiteboard with a little doodle. The word feels like a flag planted in the middle of difficult terrain: not a victory, but a home base.

Scene 9 — A Small, Real Promise

You gather your bag.

YOUI’ll be back tomorrow with the book you love—the one with the sarcastic footnotes. And a better plant.

KATKADon’t you dare replace my patient.

YOUThen I’ll bring a spray bottle and we’ll do physical therapy with it.

You hesitate at the door.

YOUDo you want me to text anyone? Or keep it just us for now?

KATKAJust us tonight. Tomorrow… maybe tell Maya. Tell her “not an emergency, just—come when you can and bring tea.”

YOUDone.

You step into the hallway, jot a reminder to yourself: Ask before touching. Mirror breathing. Read nonsense. Protect quiet.

Inside, the printer hums—two lines of tiny peaks running in tandem.

Epilogue Beats (Next Days)

Day 2: You arrive with the sarcastic-footnote book and a spray bottle. You read two chapters; Co-Beans kick. OT teaches you how to help Katka shift without strain; you practice, asking each time, “Here or here?”

Day 3: Marta helps Katka update her “Visitors/No Visitors” list. You become the gatekeeper who says “Not today” kindly but firmly. Katka rests more.

Day 4: Dr. Kovář reviews contingency plans. Katka chooses a code phrase for “stop now” that anyone will obey: “Red light.” You memorize it.

Day 5: You and Maya record a silly audio “letter” to the Co-Beans: campus lore, how Katka once led a study group that turned into a soup-making marathon. You play it on low; Katka’s shoulders drop, the corners of her mouth lift.

Day 6: On a sunset walk in a wheelchair by the window, Katka says—without details—“It was bad. I survived.” You don’t ask for more. You say, “I’m glad you’re here.” She nods, the monitor a soft metronome.

Day 7: You post the “Care List” on the whiteboard: Read. Water. Adjust wedge. Quiet. Ask. Beneath it, Katka adds one more word in careful letters you help guide: “Laugh.”

The story carries forward not by solving everything at once, but by stacking small, chosen moments—breath by breath, boundary by boundary—until ordinary life begins to reassemble around two steady heartbeats.