Page 42 of Sweet Heart

She nods and darts off toward the desk. I gaze over at the waiting area, where about two dozen patients are waiting. With at least another twenty coming in, most of them will be here all day. I have to check if we can divert some of the less critical patients to other hospitals. We are already working above our max capacity. Only more proof that the current system isn’t working.

I walk up to the desk as I quickly scan the room. We can move a few patients to other floors, opening up a room or five. We have eight vents available, max. Too few. There is always a shortage. A quick glance at the board shows that most of the night-shift surgeons are still in, and half of the morning staff are already prepping for rounds. Good timing.

I pick up the phone and get the hospital operator on the line. His voice is calm, already prepared.

“Wilson.”

“Wilson, Durand. Activate disaster protocol. Page additional staff.”

“Will do. Good luck out there.”

I hang up as Carmen mouths something from the other side of the floor. Heli incoming. I need to run.

I make it to the trauma bay at the same time as Whitman. Her hands are wrapped tightly around the color tags, and she gives me a stern nod. We’ve been here before. She is my first line of defense in the mess that is—

The elevator doors slide open, pulling me from my thought, and instantly there is noise everywhere. Everything in me stills as I zoom in on my surroundings. The residents shuffle as the paramedics rattle off the injuries. Whitman bends forward and presses her fingers to the patient’s neck. Her voice follows, loud and clear, my cue.

“Red, hypotensive.”

My eyes scan the victim. I knew it would be bad. Airlifted patients always are. His shirt is soaked in blood that seems to be oozing from his side. He is dying. My fingers itch to help him, but I know I can’t. If I put on gloves, if I touch a single patient, I’ll be leaving the staff to their own devices. It’s the only part I absolutely hate about my job. I feel like a helpless bystander, even though I know I am not. I am helping them in other ways. But still, when I see people like him, bleeding out in front of me…

“Trauma One. Activate MTP. Call anesthesia.”

I keep my commands short and clipped. Any extra words are time lost and could cause confusion. The gurney disappears down the hall as the doors slam open and the next one is rolled in. The patient is screaming in pain. Her clothes have melted into her skin, which is now a war zone of blisters, blackened flesh, and dripping plastic. The smell of gasoline wafts toward us. I catch Marcella raising an eyebrow, but she doesn’t comment.

“Yellow. Burns, stable airway,” Whitman drones.

“Burn Unit. Bay Three. Start Parkland fluids. Respiratory standby. Keep the hallway clear.”

Her screams ring in my ears, and I am tempted to order immediate pain relief for her, but it’s not my task. Not now.

“Green, waiting area,” Whitman declares, and another woman is guided away.

The victims flood in now, one after another, crowding the small area. Their cries and screams become louder, and within minutes, it feels like we are in the middle of the hot zone. It smells like burned flesh, blood, and sweat. There is glass everywhere. People are crying for their mothers, and spouses are holding on to each other for dear life. Bodies shake from pure shock, and fluids are no longer contained. This is war. And I am its commander.

Only fifteen minutes have passed between Carmen barging into my office and the arrival of the third airlifted patient. I am assessing a young boy with facial fractures when the doors slide open.

“Female, twenty-one. BP one hundred over fifty, heart rate one thirty and climbing. Abdomen distended, worsening tachycardia. Suspected intra-abdominal bleed. Stabilization attempted in the field.”

At the report of her injuries, my head already snaps up. Whitman’s eyes find mine. Jim and Aïda are both in trauma, and this patient needs urgent care.

“I’m taking her to the OR. Whitman, stay on triage.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

My hand finds the side of the gurney, and we race the patient to the first available OR. Her skin is so white it’s almost see-through. A stark contrast to the blood-soaked shirt she is wearing. One of the nurses cuts it off her body in two smooth snips, revealing her torso mottled black and blue.

“Transfer on three. One, two, three.”

We slide the patient onto the operating table, her head lolling to the side. Roberts pushes through the doors, taking his position without my having to ask.

“Two large-bore IVs. Type and crossmatch. Initiate MTP.”

My eyes flick over her once. So young. This moment will define the rest of her life, however long or short it may be.

“Prep and drape. Midline.”

“Pressure ninety over forty,” Roberts says calmly. “Intubating. Pushing ketamine.”