Page 7 of Halo

“No, no, I’m not.”

“Today, you are.” He nods toward his daughter's room. “That little girl in there? Please treat her like your own.”

“You have my word.”

Chapter 2

Nick

Stepping into an operating room is like crawling into a timeless vortex, a medical sanctuary of chrome and antiseptic. Pungent odors from various alkaline solutions greet me as the dry, frigid air dissipates the moisture in my eyes and skin. The surgical lights refract a ghastly hue that can only be seen within these walls.

I love it.

This is my arena, my turf, the place where I balance a patient between mind and medicine in order to save their life. The amount of power and responsibility that comes with anesthesia is why we're a cocky field.

Helping Ainsley onto the operating table, the circulating nurse and I position her onto her back and apply warm blankets to relieve her goosepimples and chattering teeth.

After an anesthesia time-out, Eugene, the CRNA assigned to this case with me, applies an oxygen mask to Ainsley's face and tells her to take some deep breaths.

As the surgery team finishes setting up the room and scrubbing in, I grab our drawn up medications and hook them up to her IV. “Alright, Ainsley, I want you to—”

“Count back from one hundred?” A mischievous glint twinkles in her knowing eyes.

I playfully scoff. “Listen, Miss Almost Thirteen, I see what you're doing, already trying to take my job. I wasn't born yesterday—”

“Or this century."

This little shit.

We chuckle, her giggles muffled by the mask; however, something is off. Her expression is somber, fear washing over her as she takes in these final moments before her life-changing surgery.

I take her small hand in mine, her fingers instantly finding my thumb like it did so many years ago. She grips tightly, holding on like a lifeline, and hell, if it doesn't crack my chest wide open … My heart constricts as the memories flood back in pieces.

I can do this on my own …

But you don't have to. I could be here … for you both.

I clear my throat, giving a reassuring nod to Ainsley. I slowly push in her medications while she counts backward, her hand relaxing in mine. I give it one last squeeze, her eyes fluttering closed.

Eugene adjusts the mask.

Clearing his throat, he moves it again.

Then he repositions her jaw.

“Crawford,” he calls out, his tone clipped and urging. “I suspect a laryngospasm.”

My head snaps up to the monitor at the mention of her airway constricting. This could affect her intubation which would compromise her oxygenation. Fortunately—for now—her saturation remains stable at 100%.

Saddling up to Eugene, I take over, my hands swiftly replacing his. I grip under Ainsley’s jaw, lifting it forward and extending her neck. “Ventilate.”

Eugene compresses a balloon-like reservoir bag connected to our anesthesia cart—at least he tries. “It’s … shit, it’s pretty tight, sir.”

“Hold that pressure.” My eyes lock on her breathing, her vitals in my periphery. “Steady, Gene. Stay with it.”

“She’s at 96 now.”

I nod. With her oxygen saturation starting to decline, I sift through my options. Since her vocal cords are rigid, the goal is to make them relax. “Let’s give another dose of Propofol.”