“Possible tensionpneumo?—”
“Decompress. Now.”
The words hit like a blow. I knew what came next. Knew it too well.
A tray appeared. Needle. Catheter. No time for imaging. No time for anything but action.
“Second intercostal, midclavicular,” the resident muttered, already moving.
I should’ve stepped in. Should’ve been the one calling it, doing it—But I couldn’t let go of him.
The needle drove in. A sharp hiss cut through the chaos—air escaping under pressure, loud and wrong and necessary. Eli’s chest stuttered, then lifted just a fraction.
“Got it,” the resident said. “Prep for chest tube.”
More hands. More movement. They worked fast, cutting, spreading, feeding the tube between his ribs with brutal efficiency. Blood smeared. Suction engaged. Another wet rush of air.
“Come on,” I whispered, gripping his hand tighter. “Come on, baby…”
The monitors wavered, then steadied, just enough to ease the choking tension.
The team didn’t pause, didn’t falter. Chest leads were slapped on, lines checked, meds pushed. They moved with practiced precision, while I—frozen, frantic—felt the world tilt off its axis.
The room spun, panic clawing through the edges of my training. This wasn’t just another trauma. This was my everything, bleeding out beneath the harsh, unfeeling lights. The blood matting his hair blurred, and for one dizzy second, I sawhim as he was this morning, coffee mug in hand, teasing me about the circles under my eyes. The memory hit so hard it stole the air from my lungs.
I’d been losing him, inch by inch, to long shifts and missed dinners. Excuses, broken promises, and exhaustion kept me from being the husband I’d vowed to be on the day we married, the husband Eli deserved. Now he lay there unresponsive, knocking on death’s door, and for a moment, I was terrified I’d already lost him for good.
A shrill tone spiked above the noise, thin and merciless. I knew that sound. Everyone in the room knew it.
The monitor flatlined.
“No pulse,” the resident snapped. “Starting compressions!”
A nurse dropped the bed low, hands locking over Eli’s sternum, and began driving down. Hard. Rhythmic. The sound of his ribs cracking beneath the pressure tore through me louder than the alarms.
“Don’t stop!” My voice came out raw, a ragged snarl. “Keep going—don’t you dare stop!”
“Charging—clear!” Someone slapped paddles to his chest. His body jerked, lifeless, and then collapsed back into stillness.
As they resumed compressions, I clutched his hand, my gloves slick with his blood. His fingers twitched once, then went slack. I shook my head, throat closing. “Eli, no. No, no, no, stay with me. You don’t get to leave. Not like this.”
I counted along with the compressions as if my voice could lend him strength. “Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…”
“No pulse,” the nurse called, reaching for the paddles again. “Clear!”
I dropped his hand and stepped back. His body jolted with the shock.
I stood there frozen as they worked on him. I had done this countless times—thousands, maybe—over my career: trauma, accidents, shattered bodies, bleeding hearts. My hands could move on autopilot; my mind could follow protocols even when blindfolded. But now…nothing tracked. Nothing fit.
His blood, his lacerated skin, the lights glinting off his silver band, everything about him grounded me and shattered me all at once. My training and years of discipline meant nothing here. I couldn’t compartmentalize. I couldn’t focus.
The room buzzed with movement, but none of it mattered. They blurred to shadows on the periphery of my nightmare. It was just me and Eli, the living and the dying, locked in a universe where no one else existed.
“Dr. Hawke,” a nurse said softly, her voice straining against the noise. I didn’t look up, but I felt the hesitation, the shared glances that flickered across the room. They all knew. They’d seen the way my hand clung to his, how my mask had slipped, my sobs breaking through. They knew he wasn’t just another patient.
“Call time of?—”
“Don’t you finish that sentence,” I barked, the words shattering on a sob. My chest heaved, vision tunneling with tears. “Push another round—charge again! He’s still here, goddamn it!”
