Page 489 of End Game

I recognize the medic immediately.

Haven't worked directly with him in a few years, but we've crossed paths enough.

He looks toward the receiving nurse first.

Then he sees me.

Something passes across his face.

Professional recognition.

Then understanding.

Ronan said my name enough times on the phone—he might have talked to Cami about me too.

“Griff,” he says in greeting.

I barely hear him but nod anyway.

Ronan looks pale and… scared, if I’m honest.

Cami is on the stretcher.

For one awful second, I don't recognize her.

Not really.

I know every piece of her face.

I've watched her sleep from six inches away.

I've seen her sick, exhausted, angry, drunk, laughing so hard she cried.

This is different.

Her skin looks washed out beneath the fluorescent lights. Her lips are dry. There are monitor leads across her chest and an IV running into her arm, the bag already partly empty.

And she's breathing too fast.

Each breath looks like work.

Everything medical in me catalogs it instantly.

Everything else in me wants to tear the back doors off the ambulance.

The medic releases the stretcher.

“Twenty-six-year-old female, Type One diabetic, insulin pump, known UTI diagnosed yesterday. Family found her difficult to arouse after Dexcom read HIGH. Home glucose and ours both above meter limit. Initial heart rate one-thirty-eight, sinus tach. BP one-oh-two over sixty-two. Respirations thirty-four, labored. She's had seven hundred of normal saline. One episode of nausea, no emesis. Mental status improving slightly with fluids but still confused.”

I know this report.

I've given this report.

I know exactly which words matter.

I still barely hear him.

The stretcher starts moving.