Ceiling tiles whip past overhead.
“Twenty-eight-year-old male. Blunt force trauma to the head. Lost consciousness at the scene.”
“Pupils sluggish but reactive.”
“Possible skull fracture. BP’s holding.”
Cold spreads through my arm. IV fluids, rushing in. A burn at the crook of my elbow. Machines beep. Voices overlap.
“CT, now.”
“Get neuro down here.”
“Pressure’s climbing. Let’s move.”
Hands everywhere. A sharp sting in my scalp. Someone shaving hair. Staples? No, not yet. Just pressure to slow the bleeding.
Through the curtain, I hear her again.
My mother. Crying. Choking on his name.
Except it’s my name.
“He’s strong.” My father’s voice.
The table slides me into a tunnel. It hums, clicks, whirs. The pain is too sharp, like hundreds of knives stabbing me.
“Hold still,” someone says.
As if I could move. As if I’m anything more than dead weight.
The table slides me back out. The room tilts.
Then nothing.
Until—
“Confirmed epidural hematoma.”
“Temporal bone fracture.”
“Call the OR.”
Epidural. Hematoma. Words I’ve heard before.
Blood between the skull and the brain. Pressure building.
I know what that means.
Surgery.
Faces. Masks. Bright lights.
Someone in green scrubs and a mask leans over me. “Mr. Simpson, we’re going to take good care of you. We need to relieve the pressure on your brain. You’ll be fine.”
Fine.
Will I?
