Chapter 1 - The Arrival
The automatic doors burst open at 11:53 p.m., and it wasn't the ambulance.
Three men came through them, and the whole emergency department went quiet the way a room goes quiet when everyone in it understands, at the same instant, that the night has changed shape. Two of them carried a third between them, half-dragged, half-lifted, his white dress shirt black-red from collar to belt. The man in the middle had his chin down and his eyes open, and those eyes found Emma across forty feet of scuffed linoleum and did not let go.
We need a doctor now.
The one who spoke was six-three, gray at the temples, hair cut to the scalp like a soldier's. His voice didn't rise. It didn't have to.
Emma was already moving. Ten hours into a twelve-hour shift, the coffee she'd gulped at nine long gone, replaced by that metallic taste she'd learned to live with. She pulled gloves from the box on the wall without looking at it.
Bay seven, she said. Now.
Dr. Chen came out of the physicians' alcove at a run, white coat flapping. Richardson, the collision on the expressway —
They're not here yet. This is here now.
The gray-haired man stepped in front of her. No questions. No paperwork. We pay cash, whatever it costs. Just fix him.
Dr. Chen's small frame somehow took up more space than his. Sir, you need to understand —
No. The word cut the air like a blade. We don't need explanations. We need a surgeon.
Emma was already at the gurney, her hand on the patient's wrist, counting. Thready. Fast. Too fast. The skin under her fingers was cool and tacky with sweat, and when she pressed the nail bed it stayed white too long.
BP's dropping, she said. He's going into shock. Get him in the room.
They moved as a unit, the strange procession drawing stares from a teenager holding his skateboard, from an old woman with her hand pressed to her chest. Emma shoved through the door of Bay 7, the smallest trauma room, barely big enough for the table and the equipment and the bodies now crowding into it.
On the table. You two, out.
The gray-haired man's eyes narrowed to chips of ice. We stay, or he dies.
Emma met his gaze and did not blink. Four years in this ER had taught her things nursing school never could. You can stand outside that window and watch. In here, I'm in charge. Your choice.
For a moment the tension was thick enough to choke on. Then the man on the table spoke, his voice rough and low and carrying, somehow, more authority than the man standing over him.
Do what she says.
They withdrew, but only as far as the glass. Emma saw them take positions on either side of the door like parentheses around a sentence.
She cut the shirt away. The damage underneath was worse than the stain had suggested. Two wounds. One through the left shoulder, in and out, relatively clean. The other low on the right side of the abdomen, still bleeding sluggishly, the edges puckered around a hole that was too small for what it had let inside.
Vitals, Chen ordered.
Ninety over sixty and falling. Heart rate one-ten. Sat ninety-two.
Two large-bore IVs. Four units of O-negative. Surgical kit. Chen's jaw was tight. We stabilize him and transfer to O.R.
We can't transfer him, Emma said quietly.
Chen looked up.
Those men won't allow it. Too many witnesses. Too many records. Emma was already spiking the first bag, her hands steady in a way that always surprised her afterward. If we send him upstairs, they'll take him out of the parking lot before the elevator doors close.
Chen stared at her for a long second. Then we do what we can here and pray it's enough. This is insane, Richardson.
May you like
I know.
..................................... Type '𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓'to view the full story. I’ll 'like' your comment once the link to the full post is published. If you need to find the full post within the comments section, try this: go to the comments, select 'Most relevant' and switch to 'All comments'—then look for the 'blue text', click on it, and you will be directed to the full post
