The doors to surgery swing open with a soft hiss.
Every muscle in my body locks.
The doctor pulls his mask down slowly, fatigue dragging at his features. There’s dried blood on one sleeve. Deep creases cut through the skin around his eyes.
I’m in front of him before the doors finish closing.
“How is she?”
He exhales once, like he’s choosing the words carefully.
Too carefully.
“We stabilized her.”
Relief punches through my chest so hard my knees almost unlock—
—but it dies just as fast.
Because people don’t pause like that when things are good.
My stare hardens. “Meaning?”
The doctor rubs a hand across the back of his neck. “She had significant internal bleeding. We were able to stop it during surgery, but she lost a dangerous amount of blood.”
The fluorescent lights hum overhead.
Somewhere down the hall, a monitor starts beeping faster.
I barely hear any of it.
“Is she going to make it?”
The question comes out rougher than I intended.
The doctor meets my eyes for one long second.
“It’s going to depend on how her body responds over the next several hours.”
Not yes.
Not no.
Just enough truth to tear a hole straight through my chest.
“If complications start,” he continues carefully, “we may have to take her back into surgery.”
I stare at him.
At the exhaustion in his face.
At the practiced caution in his voice.
He’s done this before.
He’s stood in hallways and handed families hope wrapped in uncertainty.
No.
