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In a trance, I reach my fingertips toward his chest. I trace them over the clammy flesh, frowning at the bumpy texture that greets me. Every millimeter of his inked flesh is pulled taut, threatening to burst at the seams from the amount of scarring. Several welts resembling bullet wound scars pepper his extremities, though none are in a place where they would have done any major damage. That is, except for the one only two inches to the right of his heart.
I search the left side of his face, an aura of déjà vu swirling in the back of my mind. On second glance, he looks strangely familiar, but I can’t think of a single instance I would’ve seen him—apart from in a slasher film, that is.
“What’s the story on the scars?” I pull my gaze up to Drew. “Not just his face, I mean. His body is covered in them.”
Drew shrugs, looking more concerned with the gushing hole in his sternum. “By the looks of this guy, he’s into some pretty bad shit. A part of me never wants to know.”
At the insinuation, I retract my hand. “How’s the other guy?” I ask.
“Don’t know. Don’t care,” Drew grunts, taking a step back from the bed as a team of nurses swirls around us. “And neither should you. Guys who come in looking like this don’t last very long.” As soon as he says it, the man flatlines, and Drew looks at me with an I told you so. A shrill alarm sounds, and Dr. Slater, the head trauma surgeon, rushes over, taking stock of the situation in a single glance.
“Clear room by the head!” he orders, rushing around to the top of the stretcher. I was so distracted earlier that I neglected the first rule of trauma, which is securing the airway.
While one of the nurses pumps the man’s chest, I grab a laryngoscope and hold it out to Dr. Slater. Blood spurts from the open wound, and he gives me a desperate look.
“You’ve done your round in anesthesia, right?” he asks, baby blues shining hopefully behind his thin spectacles.
My throat is like sandpaper as I swallow, and even though my whole body trembles, I give the weathered surgeon a nod. “I remember enough.”
“Good,” he grunts, stepping to the side to give me access to the top of the bed. My eyes widen, a brick sitting in the pit of my stomach as I realize what he expects me to do.
“Dr. Slater, I don’t know if I can do it without help—”
“Lillith! He’s dying!” Dr. Slater barks. “Look around you, there’s no one else! I have to stop the bleeding, so you need to secure the airway. NOW!”
In a kind of trance, I step to the head of the bed and angle the patient’s head backward to give me a better view of his windpipe. His short midnight hair is strangely soft in my hands, and I have the urge to run my fingers through it.
What the hell? I shake off the thought, picking up the laryngoscope and placing the blade against his bottom row of teeth, desperately trying to remember something from my rounds in anesthesia.
Using the leverage of the hooked blade, I force his mouth open and maneuver the light so I can see deep into his throat.
“Shit.” I curse under my breath. I wasted too much time, and his airway has almost closed. Pulse thrumming, I grab an NT tube and feed the device through his nasal cavity and down his throat.
“Okay, almost there…” I mumble, trying every turn and angle to get the slim tube through the swollen tissue.
“Fuck!” I scream, ripping the tube out after another unsuccessful attempt. I rifle through the crash cart, grabbing the slimmest tube on hand that’s still long enough to fit past his vocal cords.
I angle the man’s head back the same way as before, placing the MAC blade against his teeth and using the leverage to force his mouth open before feeding the tube inside. Blood rushes in my ears, drowning out the sound of the monitor screaming with the absence of a pulse. I have exactly thirty seconds before they call it, and I’ve never been so unsure of my capabilities.
In a desperate haze, I shove my ungloved hand into the man’s mouth and use my index finger to feed the tip of the breathing tube past his vocal cords. It makes a little pop as it slides past the barrier, and a cheer of triumph bubbles up in my chest.
“I got it!” I call, taping the tube to the side of his mouth before it can slide back out. There’s no way I would be able to get it in again, and I’m not taking any chances. Someone hands me a breathing bag, and I’ve never been more thankful for an extra set of limbs in my life.
“Alright, guys, let’s get him to the OR!” Dr. Slater orders, moving in perfect sync with the tech who handed me the bag. They wheel the stretcher toward the operating rooms, and I have to run to keep my place at the head. To keep breathing for him.
We pass by a few horrified-looking techs crowding the other patient on a stretcher in the middle of the hall, and Dr. Slater holds up an arm, trying to get the attention of someone.
“Sandra!” he calls, waving for her to follow him. “I need you in OR one with me.”
A woman with shoulder-length, mousy-brown hair whips her head toward the surgeon, her hazel eyes shining with defiance behind Coke-bottle glasses. Not a tech, like I assumed earlier. Head nurse, Sandra Payne.
Her chin wobbles as she whips her head from her patient to the doctor, looking like she’s debating whether to curse him out. “Dr. Slater, you don’t understand. I need to be with him. I—”
“Sandra, that wasn’t a request!” he snaps, looking flustered. “We can only save one! You’re needed with us.”
“But, Dr. Slater, you don’t understand—”
“Come on, everyone!” he orders, cutting her off as he takes off down the hallway. The rubber soles of Sandra’s clogs squeak against the freshly waxed floors as she rushes to keep up, an anxious expression on her face as she shoots one last glance at the other patient.
