Trigger Warning: Blood.

This is a work of fiction. The following chapter contains dramatized scenes for the sake of entertainment. This does not contain accurate medical content, does not provide medical advice, and is not a realistic example of medical practice.

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By the time nine o'clock rolled around, the ER was a madhouse, just as Corbin foretold. I cringe remembering my last run in with him, but luckily, I've had minimal time to think about it since then. If it wasn't for the reminder on my phone, I would have forgotten to take care of my most important patient.

I slip into the supply closet and open up my pill pocket. Shaking them into my hand, I toss them back and follow with a swig of water.

I'd rather people not know about this. I'm a noticeable underdog with or without it.

Before I enjoy the quiet isolation of this room, I force myself to go back into the chaos. "Reece!" someone shouts from across the room. Someone? Who else would it be?

I trot over to Corbin who is donning a disposable surgical gown. Seeing him put on clothes reminds me of what he looks like without them. My cheeks warm at the thought. "You called?"

He sees me and rolls his eyes. "Don't look at me like that," he scolds. "Adults have sex, Reece. Get over it and learn how to knock."

That makes it worse. "Yep, sure thing."

"You said you wanted to learn something, now's your chance." He grabs gloves from the bin. "We just got a call that a GSW is en route."

My eyes widen. "A gunshot wound?"

"That is what GSW stands for," he says.

"When is it—" Corbin running down the hallway both interrupts my question and answers it. I hurry to put on my protective layers and run after him down the hall.

The adrenaline courses through my veins as we stand in the alleyway waiting, my heartbeat matching the patter of rain against the concrete slowly blurring to the distant sound of sirens.

My adrenaline turns to sickness in my stomach. I turn to Corbin and ask, "Is there anything I should know about trauma response?"

Corbin gives me a quick glance. "Move fast and try not to kill someone."

The ambulance pulls up, and not a moment later, the doors burst open and the EMT lowers a stretcher with a man bagged and covered in blood.

No, not a man. That's a boy.

"Andrew Haggarty, seventeen, gunshot wound to the chest," the EMT lists as we wheel him inside. "He's hypotensive and his oxygen at 80 and dropping. We lost a pulse twice on the ride," he says directly to me.

The EMT lifts his hand from the patient's ribs, a spurt of blood following. Instinctively, I cover it with both hands just in time for us to make it into the room. "Page the OR, grab two bags of O-neg," Corbin barks in an even tone. "Lift on three. One, two . . ."

We shift him to the gurney, two nurses scrambling to hook him up to the monitors. Corbin cuts the boy's shirt open and silently assesses the damage with a measured expression. I wait with my heart in my throat for instruction.

A nurse comes over with an intubation tray. I eye the scope and turn to Corbin. "This is your show now, Buttercup," he says.

"Mine?" I gasp. "You think I can do this?"

"No," he answers. "But this is your chance to prove me wrong." Yeah, no pressure.

My eyes dart over his body, his chest almost steady under my hands. A full semester of school runs through my head.

Corbin cocks an eyebrow. "You know how to do this, don't you?"

"I do," I say with confidence I don't know if I believe. Corbin applies pressure in my stead.

Sure, I've done this about one hundred times in school, but this is a little different. I know I'm not breathing, but neither is he. I place the laryngoscope, get a visual, and start to feed in the tube. Ignoring the room full of people staring at me as I do it, I focus on the pressure of my hands and the angle of the tube. Once it's in, I remove the scope with a quiet cheer. The nurse attaches the bag with a smile and a nod. Only then do I take a breath.

I look up in excitement, only to see his stats haven't changed. I place my stethoscope into my ears and take a listen. Decreased breath sounds on one side. "I did it right. Why isn't it working?"

"That's for you to figure out, Doctor," Corbin quips.

I look over the body before me, the sound of the monitors blaring in my ears is only a decibel louder than the pounding of my own heart. I hear a woman scream from outside the room. I look up and see her as she says, "Andrew!? My baby! That's my baby!"

"Focus," Corbin calls my attention. His green eyes staring into mine. "Your job isn't to take care of her, it's to take care of him. His stats are dropping, Reece. What do you do?"

My heart feels like it's in my throat. "I . . . I don't know."

"Think. His heart is beating. Why isn't his lung inflating?"

What are the possible complications of penetrating chest trauma? Answer: "Chest filled with blood," I say in half-English. "Hemothorax."

"Exactly. Now, how do you fix it?"

"Drain it."

"How?"

"Take him to surgery."

"He won't make it through surgery if he can't breathe," he reminds me. "What. Do you. Do?"

I stare at him and say, "I need a scalpel."

Corbin smiles. The nurse hands me a ten blade while another douses the area to sanitize it. I run my fingers over the ribs, counting them to find my point of entry. I hover the blade between the fifth and sixth, my hand quivering.

"Do it," Corbin tells me. "Dig in deep."

My hands stop shaking when I press the blade into his tissue. Blood spills out as I drag it down, but it looks just as I expected. The nurse hands me the tube, and when I place it in, the fluid drains down it and his lung inflates. The beeping from the monitor slows. A sense of elation washes over me.

"Maybe you're not completely incompetent," Corbin says beside me.

I'm counting that as a compliment. "Now what?"

"We're taking him to surgery," he tells me.

My heart is about to beat out of my chest. "Right now?"

"Yeah," he kicks off the brakes. "Here, hold this for me."

"What?" He moves his hands from the wound and I jump into place.

He pulls the bed by the front end. Two others join me as we take our places on either side and push. We take off through the ER down a corridor. When I fall a step behind, my hand slips. I jump onto the bed and resume the compression. 

"Move!" Corbin yells and people jump aside. We don't run, we sprint.

"Nope! Ours!" he yells to the elevator passengers. They jump out and we slide to a stop inside. He slams the button. All of us take a moment to catch our breaths, but my adrenaline is too high, my heart beating too fast to calm down. If I wasn't more concerned about the kid bleeding out under my hands, I'd worry my heart was exploding.

We stand in silence, staring at the doors while panting, the seconds passing like minutes. Come on, come on, come on!

The doors open and they start to pull hard, gaining speed quickly. We make it inside the room and the table is already prepped. They help transfer him to the table; the bloodstain on his bed is the same size as the patient himself. The anesthesiologist wastes no time, the surgeon runs in right after, but I don't want to take my hands off just yet.

"What's his status?"

"He's lost a lot of blood, but he has a pulse. Barely."

"Call the blood bank now. And I'll need extra hands." He looks my way. "Who's available to scrub in?"

I look to Corbin, only to find him looking back at me. "You know how to scrub, Buttercup?" he asks.

Do I know how to scrub? Answer: Hell yes.

. . .

The lyrics to Crazy In Love play in my head as I scrub. When you leave, I'm begging you not to go. Call your name two, three times in a row—switch. When I know the song and the video by heart, I hum it and move my head like a weirdo. Filling my head with songs as familiar as this one, like background music, helps block out the intrusive thoughts, and allows me to focus on what's real and right in front of me. But, people only see the woman nodding to the uh oh, uh oh, uh oh, oh no no while staring at a sink. I'm glad I'm scrubbing alone. 

When I reach the final chorus, I rinse and I look up to find a frantic scene.

Fuck.

I run in, and no one is waiting to help me dress. I pull on the gown myself and someone catches on to help me with the gloves. They place a plastic shield over my face and my nerves kick up into overdrive.

"I need more suction!" the surgeon yells.

I run over, grab the tube, and look down. Blood, deep crimson, almost violet, spilling into the open cavity. The open cavity with a beating heart, a lung, and ribs white under the stain of more blood. So much blood. This was no cadaver, the scene came with no familiar smell of formaldehyde. This was a kid, spilling every ounce of blood from his living body . . . Oh, fuck, I'm going to be sick.

"More suction! Here!" he yells at me.

The room spins a bit, but I place the tube where directed. The slurping sound of blood rushing inside adds an odd tone to the beeping of machines. Whatever you do, don't throw up, I tell myself.

"I can't find the fucking bleed!" he yells. He moves the lung and a spray flies directly into my face. Blood, warm and viscous, drips from the shield and rolls down my neck. The bile rises into my throat but I push it down. I'm good. I'm great. This is fine.

Don't worry 'bout me, I'm doing good, I'm doing great, alright, I sing in my head to transfer focus from my body back to my head and my hands. Complete detachment from the rest of my body is my only option at this point. It's about to get ugly flow so mean I just can't be polite. More blood sprays against my abdomen.

"He's bleeding out, Doctor."

The sound of suctioning makes my lightheadedness worse, but I stick to the lyrics. Don't worry 'bout me, I'm doing good, I'm doing great, alright. It's about to get ugly flow so mean I just can't be polite. Don't worry 'bout me, I'm doing good, I'm doing great, alright. It's about to get ugly flow so mean I just can't—

"Goddammit," the surgeon says and sets down his instruments. My focus breaks from my hands and registers the sharp sound of the flatline. He steps back and pulls his mask from his face. "Time of death 23:38."

"Wh-what?" I stammer. I look down at the violence before me and only then does it sink in.

This kid was seventeen.