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harranarchy

May 20

MURPHY'S LAW

ACUTE ON CHRONIC

If there is a possibility of several things going wrong, the one that will go wrong will cause the most damage.

WC: 5.7k | Masterlist

NSFW | 18+ | MINORS DNI

cw: injury, death, bodily fluids, hospital emergency, slow burn romance

HARRY

“So are you going to extend or not?” I ask Tess, even though I know what she’ll say, even though I know it isn’t the answer I want, and the entire topic is a cliff we’ve been waiting to jump off of.

I have been at her apartment all day, and I am supposed to leave for my shift in ten minutes, but she has chosen this exact time to bring up the fact that San Hidalgo Regional Medical Center has asked to extend her contract. Again.

Tess has been a travel nurse for seven years, which is about six longer than most people last, and she’s made a career out of being needed everywhere but wanted nowhere. Her current stint at SHRMC was supposed to be thirteen weeks; she’s now on her twenty-sixth, and the hospital is about two nurses short of a full closure.

She shrugs. “I haven’t decided. That’s why I’m asking you. I don’t want to do long distance again. Hated it when you were gone.”

I stretch and try to refocus on the problem at hand. “I thought you already had a job lined up in Denver. You said they were paying you double.”

“It’s not about the money.”

“Everything’s about the money,” I fire back. “Besides, you don’t even like it here.”

“I like it here because you’re here.”

I’m sure this is meant to be an emotionally charged moment. But even after six months of dating, I have no real idea where we are going, only that I have become quite comfortable floating alongside her until one of us finds something better.

I like Tess. More than that, I admire her. She is a force of nature, and funny, and gorgeous, and all the things a thirty-two year old man would be looking for in a life partner. She is also, however, fundamentally restless. When she can’t change the world, she moves herself instead.

So I don’t want her to stay. Or rather, I don’t want her to stay for me, because I know that as soon as it’s “for me,” she’ll start to resent the whole thing. Which, in turn, will make me the problem, and I’m not prepared to be the problem. I keep hoping she’ll decide to move on and save me the bother of ending things for both of us.

She must see the gears grinding behind my eyes, because she laughs and says, “Don’t strain yourself. I’m not asking you to propose. Just tell me if you’d miss me.”

I clear my throat. “Of course I’d miss you. I just—” I pause, waiting for the right words to appear. “I think you should do what you want. Not what you think I want. You’re not tied to me or to this place.”

She gives me another long, critical look, then drops the subject. “Fine. If you’re not going to help, then you lose the right to complain if I leave and you hate me for it.”

“I could never hate you,” I say, getting up and grabbing my bag. “I’ve really got to go, but we can talk about this again if you want. Don’t have to decide right this moment.”

“Alright,” she sighs. “Have a good shift. I love you."

This is the longest I’ve stuck with anyone since uni, and half that time, one of us was out of the country. Even now, standing here with my bag slung over my shoulder and my keys in my fist, I am thinking about the shift ahead, and the coffee I’ll need to get through it, and whether the parking lot will have any spaces left after 7pm.

All this to say, it doesn’t feel like I love her, but I say it back anyway, because I’m not a total arsehole.

The drive to the hospital is uneventful. I hit every red light but make the trip in under ten minutes, just to find there is a blue SUV parked in the lot. Usually I wouldn’t care about the cars, but I walk past it and see the hospital parking tag on the mirror, confirming my suspicions—Jiménez, E.

Esme doesn’t work nights. Then again, neither do I, if I can avoid it.

I badge in, dump my bag at the break room, and start the circuit. Rounds are done in under twenty minutes because the only patients on are a broken ankle from a rodeo and a man with kidney stones who keeps asking if I can just “knock him out.” It’s either a calm before the storm, or a setup for the worst night of my life.

“Strange vibe, isn’t it?” asks Dani, the charge nurse.

“Gonna be a weird one,” I reply, because it always is.

The longer I spend waiting around for something to happen, the more restless I feel. By 4AM, the only new admit is an old lady who’s really just lonely, so I opt for my usual hiding spot. It’s a bit ironic given my relationship with organised religion, but no one ever checks the chapel after midnight.

I let the heavy door thud closed behind me, expecting to be alone. I am not.

Esme’s in the second pew from the front, sitting with her knees drawn and her head resting on her forearm. She could be asleep or mid-rosary, but the details are beside the point—she looks so peaceful I feel like an intruder just for standing here.

I consider backing out and letting her have the place. Then I remind myself that I was here first, both on earth and in terms of tenure, so I slide into the back pew as quietly as possible.

There is a bag of Cheez-Its in my pocket that I opened hours ago but never actually had the chance to eat. I try not to make a sound, but the bag crinkles, making Esme jump and snap her eyes open. When she sees me, she sits up straighter and rubs her face, which is blotchy and a little puffy, probably from crying.

I break the silence. “I thought this was my spot.”

“You can’t just go around claiming real estate in a place of worship. That’s how we got Scientology.”

“I’m not claiming it,” I counter. “I just thought it’d be free. You don’t usually work overnight, do you?”

She rolls her eyes and leans back, looking at the ceiling like she’s searching for the best way to get abducted by the Holy Spirit and flown out the window. “Not usually, no. But I’m waiting for CPS to pick up a patient from day shift.”

I wince. “What’s the case?”

She sighs. “EMS found a kid walking down the highway, brought him in. He said he was looking for help because his mum was sick and wouldn’t wake up, but police couldn’t find an address. It’s…” she trails off, suddenly very interested in the crucifix ahead. “Fucked.”

I hate it when it’s kids. Everyone does. “How old?”

“Eight.” Her eyes get shiny and she blinks rapidly, then clears her throat. “Sorry. I’m just sleep deprived—makes me cry at dog food commercials.”

“Honestly, you’re doing the building a favour.” I offer her the bag, and she stares at it like I’ve suggested we take communion together.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to eat in here.”

“You’re not really supposed to sleep, either,” I say, nodding to where her legs were up on the bench.

She accepts one and pops it in her mouth. We sit in silence for a bit, her staring back at the crucifix, me cramming Cheez-Its two at a time.

I find myself looking at her too much. I’m wildly attracted to her, which is a bit of a crisis, honestly, because it feels disrespectful to Tess. I don’t know if attraction is the same thing as a crush, or if I’m just bored and self-destructive, but the fact that this isn’t the first time I’ve caught myself checking her out is enough to make me feel like a bastard.

There’s an important distinction that’s keeping my head above water through all of this: it’s not that I want to act on it, I just want to understand what it is.

“Why so pensive?” Esme asks without looking over.

I pause, because I didn’t realise she was watching me watch her. “ED’s a mess right now.”

“No it’s not,” she argues. “Or you wouldn’t be in here. This is actually the least chaotic I’ve ever seen it.”

“I’m just thinking…” I look down, pretending to be deeply invested in the expiry date on the snack pack and try to brush her off.

Then I remember I’ve seen her with patients. She will wait you out until you say what’s on your mind or die trying.

“My girlfriend,” I finally break. “She’s a travel nurse. She’s been asked to extend her contract here, and I told her to do whatever she wanted, and now I feel like a prick for not just saying how I feel.”

“Which is—?”

I sit back, finally looking at her again. “I just don’t want us to resent each other, you know?”

“Why would you resent each other?”

“She’d be miserable,” I answer. “She doesn’t like it here, but she’ll renew because she doesn’t want to leave me. It’s happened a dozen times—things will be fine for a while, but then she’ll start to remember why she wanted to go in the first place. Then we both spend the rest of her contract walking on eggshells so she didn’t turn down another job for nothing.”

“But what about you? Why would you resent her?”

“You’re good at this,” I say, cracking a smile, but she doesn’t look amused by the deflection. “Yeah, I dunno. I like her, I do, but I don’t really see a future together. She likes to move around, and I like it here. I think that’s why I let it go on so long. I knew, eventually, she’d move on, and I wouldn’t have to be the one to end it.”

“It sounds like you already resent her for not having left by now,” Esme points out. “Why don’t you tell her that? I mean, that you don’t see a future with her.”

“Because then we would break up.” As soon as I say it, I realise how stupid I sound.

“Right. Okay…” she says slowly, trying to piece it all together. Somehow, she doesn’t make me feel like an absolute idiot or arsehole, even though I’m at the midpoint of the Venn diagram. “So, you don’t want to be with her, but you also don’t want to break up with her.”

“I do want to break up,” I clarify quickly. “What I mean is, I don’t want to be the one that does it. Then it would be all my fault and not just circumstance."

“No, it’s still circumstantial,” she corrects. “Your feelings about her have changed. That doesn’t make it anyone’s fault.”

I genuinely hadn’t thought of it like that. “She might not see it that way.”

Esme nods again. “Maybe not at first, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t end things, if that’s what you want. It sounds like you’re under a lot of pressure.”

I mull it over. “It’s just—I’ve never broken up with anyone before,” I admit, surprised by how honest that sounds out loud. “I don’t know what to tell her.”

That catches her off guard. “Never?”

I shake my head. “Only been on the receiving end. It’s always awkward.”

“Most people survive it, from what I’ve heard. Do you want to practice?”

I almost choke on the Cheez-It. “You’re taking the piss. Practice breaking up?”

“Why not? It’s a controlled environment. Low stakes.” She shrugs, perfectly serious. “Doesn’t mean you have to do it, but if you decide you want to, maybe it won’t seem so impossible.”

This is absurd, but she’s staring at me so vehemently, I go along with it.

“How do we start?”

“Let’s skip the logistics. Just jump right in.”

I clear my throat. “Okay. Well… I think you’re really great, and I like you a lot, but…” I look at the floor, wishing it would open up. “But I think we’re headed in different directions, and I don’t want to hold you back.”

“What do you mean?” she asks. “Are you breaking up with me?”

I nod. “I’m not sure this is working. I care about you, but I don’t think I’m the person you need.”

She looks so fucking sad, for a second I almost buy it. “Is it something I did?”

“No,” I say, “No, you’re brilliant, it’s just…we want different things.”

“You don’t love me?”

The weight of the question hits me right in the chest. “Not in the way you deserve.”

Esme stares at me with such pure shock, I start to worry I’ve slipped into an alternate reality. Then a single tear runs down her face, and she finally breaks by bursting out in laughter.

“Christ,” I say, laughing with her. It feels cathartic, like if I’d actually ended the relationship right then and there, a load would be gone from my shoulders. “Was that as bad as it felt?”

She wipes her face, still giggling. “I don’t know. You focused on how you felt instead of telling me everything I was hypothetically doing wrong, which was good. Ten out of ten, I’d say.”

“Please tell me that wasn’t the worst you’ve heard.”

“I wouldn’t know,” she answers. “Never been broken up with. But if I did, and it went like that, I’d still respect you.”

“I knew you were a heartbreaker,” I tease, before I can stop myself.

“Wait—no. Not like that,” she chuckles. “I’ve never broken up with anyone, either. I’ve not been in a relationship.”

This takes me by surprise. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not. I mean, I’ve gone on dates, obviously, but never made it past, like, the second one.”

“That’s bleak. You don’t strike me as emotionally unavailable.”

“I’m not. Just never met anyone worth the hassle.”

It makes a strange amount of sense. Esme is a master at appearing open without ever really giving away the whole story. She listens so well you forget to ask what she isn’t saying, but she doesn’t read as terrified of intimacy—she’s just really, really careful about where she puts her energy.

I shift, stretching my legs out under the pew in front. “You know, I really did think you were with Mateo. The way you two act, it’s like you’re together, or have been.”

She seems almost amused by the accusation. “Told you, just friends.”

“Huh,” I say, trying to untangle my own reasoning. It doesn’t really matter, but it feels important to have an answer for why I find her so…compelling. “Well, the best relationships always start out as friendships. Or at least, that’s what they say.”

She rolls her eyes again, but this time it’s less theatrical. “I think sometimes we mistake proximity for attraction.”

Is that what I’m doing, right now? Maybe I’m not attracted to her; we’re just locked in the same box and I haven’t given it enough time to learn all the things about her that drive me up the wall.

But I think I want to.

She catches me looking again, but she doesn’t call me out on it. There’s something about the way she exists in space that makes it hard for me to remember why I ever liked anyone else.

Eventually, my pager roars to life. I glance at the readout—“ADULT MAJOR TRAUMA 2 MIN ETA.”

“Got to go,” I tell her, giving her an apologetic look. “Thanks for the intervention, Jiménez. Hope CPS shows up soon.”

“Thanks,” she replies. “See you when the chaos dies down.”

I hit the trauma bay at the same time as the gurney wheels inside, nearly taking out the doors on the way in. The paramedics are Mateo and some new guy—Carter, I think. Mateo spots me and launches into the report, never breaking stride as he keeps his hands pressed to the bag valve mask.

“Abigail Thompson, thirty-six, found unresponsive by neighbour. Down time unknown, but cold to touch and GCS three on scene. Pupils fixed and dilated. Agonal breathing, four per minute, airway full of emesis. Suctioned, intubated in field. No response to two Narcan, IV push.”

All of this tells me, before I even look at the patient, that she’s been dead for a while, but I’m not paid to make that call on the pavement. I’m paid to make it in a trauma bay with every available hand in the county trying to prove otherwise.

“BP?”

Mateo wipes his brow. “Couldn’t get a reading. No palpable pulse on scene. Got a carotid with fluids but lost it again en route.”

The rest of the team converges at once. Dr. Jennifer Dawson asks, “Any med history?”

“There were empty prescription bottles everywhere. Lorazepam, cyclobenzaprine, oxycodone.”

The tech climbs onto the foot of the bed and immediately starts compressions. I slide to the head to take over the airway and catch Mateo’s eye.

“Night shift, too, huh?”

He grins, even though he looks half asleep. “Working a double, unless you want to trade?”

“Pass,” I say, and then, to Jennifer, “She’s tubed?”

She nods, checking the bag valve and confirming bilateral chest rise with the stethoscope. “It’s in, but we’re leaking around the cuff. We should pull and re-pass?”

“Yeah. Let’s visualise.” I cut the tape, gently withdraw the tube, and immediately there’s a sludge of what smells like vodka and a vanilla protein shake. The patient coughs and her jaw snaps shut on the laryngoscope blade before I can wedge it in. Jennifer angles the light just right, and I see the red, glistening cords.

I pass the tube and balloon it, while we get her hooked up to the monitor. The nurse, Rose, connects the bag. Air goes in, the chest rises, and there’s a faint burbling but less than before.

I glance at the monitor—the line stays flatter than the Texas panhandle.

“Compressions, please,” I say to the tech, who starts again, and the body jerks in rhythm. “Push one of epi, one of Narcan. Let’s see if we get lucky.”

Rose is so fast with the syringe it’s like she had it ready before I spoke. She gets the first dose in and calls, “One epi, in.”

Jennifer is calling out the intervals, but once she checks the pupils again, she shakes her head. “Nothing. Still fixed. Cold as hell, too.”

I grab the ultrasound from the cart, because sometimes, if you’re lucky, you can find cardiac activity when the monitor lies. The probe slides over the patient’s sternum until the heart is in view, but there’s not even a pretense of electrical activity. No pericardial fluid, no tamponade, no hope.

“Another round of epi,” I order, even though I know we’re not bringing her back. There are no miracles left for this one.

“Want to try bicarb?” asks Rose. “Last ditch?”

I shrug, because why not. “Yeah, push one.”

At four minutes, BP’s still undetectable and the skin is starting to marble. Jennifer and I exchange a look, and then I call it. “She’s done. Time of death, 04:28.”

Everyone stops. The tech climbs off, Rose starts a count of the used syringes, Jennifer fucks off to start her charting, and I peel off my gloves and toss them into the bin. There’s a streak of blood across my wrist that I missed, and I scrub it off at the nearest sink. I’ve seen too many dead bodies in too many different stages, but it’s hardest when it’s slow—never fails to reset me for at least a few minutes.

I pass the nurse’s station, where only the true believers remain. Esme, Dani, and Mateo look like they’re trying to solve a riddle.

“Thompson’s a common surname, yeah?” Esme asks.

“Yeah,” Mateo agrees. “But he told Carter they just moved here, and the house was still packed up. Explains why he doesn’t know his address.”

I pull up the chart on the nearest workstation, but really I’m just here to eavesdrop.

“Want me to ask him what his mum’s name is?” Dani offers. “He’s awake. I checked on him ten minutes ago.”

Esme replies, “I already asked. He said his mum’s name was ‘mum’ and seemed offended I suggested otherwise.”

“Police gave me her phone from the house,” Mateo says, sliding it across the counter. “She has two emergency contacts. They’re both Tulsa area codes. The boy said they moved here from Oklahoma.”

“Definitely his mum, then,” Dani says, not as a question.

“Yeah,” he answers, rubbing at the place where his IV gloves have left a red band on his wrist. “Sorry, Es. But I hope this is helpful for CPS. Maybe one of the contacts is the dad.”

“I’ll call them.” She pulls out her phone and scoffs. “Nevermind. My phone is dead.”

There is a desk phone sitting right in front of me. I pick up the entire console and set it down with a thunk, effectively exposing my snooping.

“Well, it’s about to be a shit day for someone,” Dani remarks.

Esme sighs with dread and picks up the receiver. Everyone disperses, suddenly finding charts to finish or supplies to stock. No one wants to be caught watching this.

˖⁺‧₊⟡₊˚⊹

The only thing that ever changed between day and night shift was the number of interruptions, and right now the count is approaching critical mass. Wyatt arrives first, trailed by Madelyn and Caleb. Maria and José appear from behind the glass fishbowl of the nurses’ station, both looking like they haven’t left since I last saw them. Dani is still at the command desk, reviewing discharge summaries and absolutely about to remind me of something I’ve failed to chart.

Across the bay, Esme is walking beside a man with oozes the aura of a CPS worker. They are herding a small boy towards the main doors. The kid is hysterically crying, clutching a brown teddy, and wearing fleece pyjamas printed with astronauts, even though it’s mid-August and the air-con’s still broken. I suppose I’m sweating enough for the both of us.

“He’s still here?” Wyatt asks, following my line of sight.

“Yeah. All night.” I could tell the story, but I don’t. “Shit ending, if you ask me.”

He watches the kid walk out the front doors until the trio is swallowed up by sunlight, then shakes it off. “Alright. Give me the rest.”

I give him the rundown. “Room two’s your kidney stone guy. Still pissing blood, but pain’s managed. Urology said they’d scope him today if he obstructs again. Broken ankle from the rodeo in four, ortho cleared him for discharge but he’s got no one to drive him home. You’ll have to see if transport can swing by after ten. Lonely old lady in six—she’s really here for company, but Jiménez flagged her for a home assessment. And then two new admits. Asthma attack, stable, and a broken arm in ten-year-old twins. They’re drawing lots for the best cast colour.”

Wyatt makes a noise like he’s taking it all in, but he’s already erased the part about the lonely old lady and is plotting where to dump the ankle. “Right, well, have fun being off for the next thirty-six hours. We’ll hold down the fort.”

He, Caleb, and Madelyn head out to do their rounds, and I sit at the station, finishing the last of my documentation for the two new admits. I want to leave, but I also don’t want to leave, because all I’ll do is sleep for three hours, wake up to a string of texts from Tess, and then lie in bed wondering where I went wrong.

Maria’s voice cuts through the fog. “Trauma incoming, three minutes. Sixteen-year-old male, assault victim, GCS of 8.”

That sounds like a real shitshow, and if I have any self-preservation instinct at all, I will wrap up my charting and vanish before they wheel the kid through the doors. Because every trauma is a crowd, and every crowd is an opportunity to be drafted into resuscitation whether or not you want to be.

There’s an immediate shift in the air as Wyatt and Madelyn rush to gown up. So I keep typing, furiously, pretending not to have heard. The asthma patient’s mother wants copies of everything, and the father of the twins is a real stickler for detail who requested “no narcotics” and “no bullshit.” I make a note to flag their charts for pain reassessment, because the kids are going to need something stronger than ice before the ortho consult comes.

Three minutes later, the doors fly open. Carter barrels through first, steering a stretcher that is covered with enough blood to make a pathologist nervous. Mateo’s following close behind him, looking less composed than usual, which is saying something. I’ve never seen him rattled before.

Wyatt takes over immediately, barking orders at the techs and nurses, and the trauma bay becomes a flurry of bodies. From my spot at the station, I hear Mateo shout, “Sixteen-year-old male. Blunt head trauma, scalp avulsion, GCS dropped to eight en route. Pupils unequal—left’s sluggish, right’s reactive. No response to sternal rub, airway intact but gurgling. BP’s all over the place.”

I keep charting and tell myself: let Wyatt take this one. That’s why they pay him, or at least, why they haven’t fired him yet.

The commotion seeps through the walls—raised voices, suction, the occasional bark of “syringe!” or “move!” from the nurses. After the third time the word “code” floats down the corridor, I debate offering token assistance before vanishing into freedom. But that becomes a given once I hear Mateo and Wyatt, having it out in the loudest, most public display of workplace dysfunction I’ve seen in months.

Maria looks at me. “Should we—”

“I’ve got it.”

The sight inside is exactly what I expect, but somehow worse. Madelyn and Caleb are running the code, both visibly in their element. José is doing chest compressions while two other nurses dart between the head and the foot of the bed, prepping lines and shouting numbers.

In the centre of the chaos is Wyatt, barking orders at Mateo, who is holding the kid’s head and shouting back. They look ready to punch each other.

“You need to listen,” Mateo yells over the chorus of alarms.

“I am listening!” Wyatt shouts back, clearly about to lose control of the situation. “What do you want me to do?”

“Let me find her!”

“What’s happening?” I ask, because this is not just an ordinary trauma, and I can feel the panic in the room like a typhoon. “Do you need help?”

Wyatt’s gaze snaps towards me, and he gives a curt, “No.”

“Yes,” Mateo asserts, gesturing at the patient. “He’s allergic to like, four different medications. One of them is either morphine or lidocaine, I don’t remember—”

“Well, we’re about to find out,” Wyatt interrupts, “because we already pushed lido.”

I watch the monitors. The team is working like a pit crew at Monaco, but the patient is tanking fast. “How do you know he’s got allergies without knowing what for? Is it in his chart? Did he tell you?”

“No chart, he’s never been here before,” Mateo answers. “He didn’t tell me, Esme did. A long time ago.”

My brain goes blank for half a second, trying to reconcile this with the situation. “Jiménez?”

“Yes, Jiménez. This is Diego, her little brother.”

It’s like a switch flips. I feel the world contract around the table and then expand in slow-motion. I didn’t even know Esme had a brother; I wish I still didn’t.

“Anaphylaxis,” José declares, not stopping compressions. “BPs tanking, and he’s broken out in hives.”

The trauma bay is at boiling point. Someone shouts out a new value every five seconds, the other nurse starts pushing epi, but all I can focus on is how Diego’s already blue around the lips.

Caleb looks like he’s about to pass out, so I turn to Madelyn. “Page Jiménez. Now.”

“No!” Wyatt shouts. “No family. She’s going to rush in here, and we need to stabilise first—”

She snaps, “I cannot work this code blind, Dr. Cole!”

“Do you have his mum’s number?” I ask Mateo. “I’ll call her.”

He frantically shakes his head. “Esme’s his legal guardian!”

I’m not in charge, but I know what I’d do if I were. I slide open the door to the central station, and beeline for Maria, who’s already two steps ahead, mid-dial and white-knuckling the receiver. “She’s not answering her phone, and I’ve already tried paging her.”

“It’s dead,” I respond. “Last I saw, she was with a CPS worker. Do you know where they went?”

Dani, thank Christ, is still here, barrelling out of the security room. “Just saw her on the cameras. She’s in the visitor’s lot, west entrance—”

I am already moving before she finishes her sentence. It’s three hundred metres to the visitor’s lot, but sprinting at dawn always adds a couple extra miles. Every nurse in the corridor is rubbernecking as I go, but I do not care; I just shoulder through the doors and nearly body-check the cleaner mopping outside.

“Sorry, sorry—” I mumble, but my voice is lost as I badge through the fire exit and burst out into the sunlight so fast I almost blind myself.

Esme is at the far end, conversing with the CPS worker, but she keeps glancing over her shoulder at the hospital like she knows she’s about to be called back for one last bit of paperwork.

I ease off the sprint, trying to come across as less alarming, but Esme’s radar for madness is fully operational. As soon as she sees me, she says something to the man, then heads my direction, squinting against the sun.

“Did I forget to sign something?”

“No. But I need you—” I fumble my badge at the staff entrance, nearly drop it, and then manage to open the door and hold it for her. “You need to come with me.”

“What’s going on?”

My mouth is so dry it takes a few attempts to get the words out. “What is your brother allergic to?”

Her eyes cycle through every stage of horror and confusion simultaneously. “I’m sorry?”

“Your brother. Diego. What is he allergic to?”

She crosses her arms and looks at me like I’ve just accused her of shoplifting. “Why?”

“Jiménez, please. I need to know what he’s allergic to,” I repeat, trying to stay patient. “Like, right now.”

“Atropine, lidocaine, penicillin, codeine…”

“That all?”

“Yes.” She rolls her eyes. “He should know all of this.”

I feel like I’m about to confess to a murder. “He’s not conscious.”

She slows down, so I put a hand on her shoulder, gently steering her as I badge us through every steel door. “What do you mean? What’s happened?”

“I’m not sure. Mateo brought him in. He’s got a head injury, that’s all I know.”

“Is it bad?”

I don’t know what to say. There is a spot of sweat pooling at the base of my neck as we take a sharp corner, and she takes the opportunity to wrench away, a flash of anger cutting through the confusion. “Harry, is it bad?”

I stop, too, and look her in the eye. It’s the only time I do it, and I instantly have to glance away. “It’s bad, love. Really bad.”

The badge reader beeps and I drag her through the doors, nearly into Maria, who is standing with her arms crossed and her eyes glued to the trauma bay window as the monitors keep blaring. Esme tries to sidestep, but Maria plants her firmly in the hall, one hand a vice on her arm, the other between her and the door.

“He’s coding,” Maria says softly. “Let’s go sit down.”

“I don’t want to sit down!” Esme fires back, but I don’t wait for the rest, because inside the bay, the code is going off the rails.

Mateo’s taken over compressions while Caleb’s holding Diego’s jaw for bagging. Everything is covered in either something surgical or blood. The kid’s maybe eighty kilos, and right now about twenty percent of him is outside of his own body.

I slide the door open and rattle off, “Atropine, lidocaine, penicillin, codeine. That’s what he’s allergic to.”

“Are you joking?” José asks, going pale. “We’ve just loaded him with atropine, not even ten seconds ago.”

“Push more epi.”

“We’re on our third,” he replies. “It goes up, then tanks again.”

I move in and take over compressions, nudging Mateo out of the way. Diego’s chest caves under my palms, and I feel a tiny spike of nausea, then stuff it so far down I nearly lose track of my own feet.

“Mateo, go find Esme,” I tell him. “She needs you.”

He scurries out the door, and I keep up with compressions. It feels like hours, but it’s only a minute before the code nurse calls, “Pulse?”

Madelyn checks. “Nothing.”

I give another cycle. My hands are slick, and I can feel the sweat stinging under the gloves. The next check is also negative.

“We need to call it,” Wyatt says. I can tell he doesn’t want to be the one to do it.

“Not yet.”

“Harry—“

“Not yet.” I glare at the monitor. “He’s sixteen. Give him another round.”

I glance out the window and see Esme, standing motionless behind the glass, watching the code as if she’s in a museum and not the worst moment of her life. If I have to tell her her brother’s died, I need to know that I did every single thing I could.

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