Page 480 of End Game

I don't argue.

The bathroom is empty.

I lock the door, wash my hands once, then again when I notice dried blood at the edge of my watchband.

I've seen enough of it that the sight doesn't bother me in any meaningful way, but my nervous system hasn't gotten the memo that we're safe now. My hands shake once when I reach for a paper towel.

I flex them.

Breathe.

Look at myself in the mirror.

There is a dark streak across the thigh of my pants and another along the lower edge of my shirt where I must have leaned against him during the extrication.

Fantastic.

I look like the opening scene of a crime show.

The snack room is down the hall from the ambulance entrance, and the refrigerator is fully stocked with bottled water—which isn’t always the case, so I’m grateful.

I take one.

Drink half of it standing there.

Then I finally sit down.

The plastic chair feels strange under me after an hour of moving.

My personal phone has been in my pocket for almost two hours.

There are calls where I can glance at it between tasks. Calls where I'll see a notification while we're transporting and check it when things settle.

This wasn't one of those calls.

I pull it out.

The screen wakes.

Notifications cover it.

Three missed Dexcom alerts.

A missed group-chat notification.

Another Dexcom alert.

My brain catches on the word before I really process anything else.

HIGH

Every piece of post-call noise in my head vanishes so completely that for one second the room feels silent.

I open the app.

Cami's graph fills the screen.

The last several hours are there in a line I understand too fucking well.