Page 47 of The One Who Never Left: Colter

“I think so,” the woman said, voice shaking. “He ran out of the yard and I heard—” She broke off, pressing a hand to her mouth.

“You did the right thing,” Colter said, steady as stone. “Irma, can you take Ms. Miller to the waiting room and get her some coffee.”

“I want to stay with Patches,” the woman said to Irma, frantic with fear.

“I know you do,” Irma said with a gentleness honed from years of dealing with people on the worst day of their lives. “But they need space to work. I promise you Patches is in the best hands in the state.”

The woman hovered near the doorway, wringing her hands. “Is he going to be okay?”

Colter didn’t look up. “We’re doing everything we can. I need you to take a breath for me, all right?”

Sutton felt it then. The shift. The way the room bent around him when things got bad. This wasn’t charm or confidence or that small-town golden-boy energy he used to distract people from the soft parts of him. This was purpose. This was who he was when nothing else mattered.

Irma placed a hand on Ms. Miller’s shoulder to guide her out of the room. “Now, why don’t you follow me.”

“Okay,” Ms. Miller sniffled.

“Sutton, we’ll need oxygen and the crash cart,” Colter said calmly.

Sutton moved before the words fully landed and the part of her that had learned how to be calm when everything inside wanted to panic kicked in. She fit the mask gently over the dog’s muzzle, murmuring softly. Not words, exactly. Just low and soothing sounds that a mama makes when consoling a baby in pain.

“That’s it, buddy,” Colter whispered. “Stay with us.”

Colter was already palpating the abdomen, fingers precise, expression unreadable except for the tight set of his jaw. “Heart rate’s weak. Pupils sluggish. We’re losing time.”

Dr. Porter barreled in from the hallway like a man half his age, gray whips of hair standing up, glasses sliding down his nose. “Are the IV is ready and the fluids primed?”

“Porter,” Colter asked, doing a double take. “What are you doing here?”

Porter lifted a brow, clearly taken aback. “What do you think I’m doing here?” he said, as if the answer were so obvious it barely warranted words. “Ms. Miller called me on the way over. I told her I’d scrub in.”

“We’ve got this,” Colter said.

“I know you do, but Ms. Miller would feel more comfortable with me here.”

“I’ve got it handled,” Colter said tightly.

“Never discount a patient’s request,” Dr. Porter said as if it were rule number uno.

A rule Porter had apparently written, filed, and was now personally enforcing, whether Colter liked it or not.

“I swear, if this day throws one more thing at me—” Colter’s jaw clenched. “Scrub in.”

“Atta boy.” Dr. Porter pulled on a scrub top and latex gloves.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Colter said. “I’m going to need X-rays and blood. Sutton, can you⁠—”

“Already on it,” Sutton said, reaching for the IV.

He glanced up, just for a beat. Not to check her credentials or question her, but to confirm what he already knew—that she had his back. He gave a single sharp nod and turned back to the dog.

She slid the needle in cleanly, flushed the line, taped it down. “IV’s in.”

“Good,” Colter said. “Let’s move.”

They wheeled the table down the hall, the lights above blurring into a tunnel of white. Sutton jogged alongside, keeping the oxygen steady, calling out vitals as Dr. Porter monitored the machine.

“BP’s dropping.”