3. Jonah
THREE
Jonah
9:48 PM
The hum of the surgical lights buzzes faintly in my ears, almost drowned out by the beeping monitor beside me.
My focus narrows to the sutures beneath my hands. The wound is gaping but clean. The bleeding is under control now, though it took far too long to get here.
Every second stretched out like a minute as we cauterized vessels, suctioned blood, and worked our way down to remove the bullet nestled dangerously close to the iliac artery. One wrong move, and this kid wouldn’t have made it off the table.
The last clamp goes in, and the bleeding slows to a faint trickle. I let out a quiet breath through my nose, though I don’t dare relax. The bullet’s out, the major vessels intact, but the wound is deep, raw, and unforgiving. I thread the suture needle and lean in, every movement deliberate. The curve of the needle dips into the flesh, pulling it together with steady precision.
“Steady,” I murmur to no one in particular, the habit automatic. The tissue resists slightly under the tension, but I ease it closed, stitch by stitch. The rhythm steadies my breathing, each loop and knot deliberate, efficient.
Patel, the anesthesiologist, glances at the monitors. “Pressure’s holding at 110 over 70. He’s stabilizing.”
“Good,” I reply, flicking my eyes to the monitors before focusing back on the wound. My hands don’t stop moving as the last suture slides into place with a satisfying finality.
“There,” I say, leaning back and stripping off my gloves. “He’s got a fighting chance now.”
“We’ll monitor for any signs of infection, but it’s looking clean so far,” I say, more for the benefit of the nurses than anyone else. It’s automatic, part of the rhythm of surgery, but I need them to know I’m not just stitching for the sake of it. Every move is deliberate, every choice purposeful.
“Clamp,” I say, holding my hand out without looking. A moment later, the cool steel is in my palm, and I use it to secure the last bleeder.
“Is he going to make it?” one of the younger nurses, Foster, asks, her voice tight with nerves. She’s good, but new enough to be rattled by the situation—the cops outside, the bloodshed, the tension that hasn’t fully lifted even though the immediate danger is gone.
“Let's hope so,” I say evenly. “More Chance than he had when he came in.”
I glance at the clock on the wall. The whole ordeal has taken hours. Harper’s voice echoes faintly in my mind from earlier, steady even in the chaos. I didn’t even know she was back until she called me into that madness.
I finish the final stitch and step back, stripping off my gloves with practiced ease. Patel nods at me, confirming Joey is stable for now. “We’ll keep him under observation.”
“Good,” I reply, giving everyone a smile. “You guys did great.”
The door swings open just as I’m heading out, and two uniformed officers step into my path. Great. Exactly what I don’t need right now.
“Dr. Bellinger?” the taller one asks, his hand resting on his belt. “We need a word.”
I pause, exhaling slowly. My mind is still half in the OR, running through the list of post-op protocols for Joey. The last thing I want to do is be interrogated. “What can I do for you, Officer?”
“We need to know what happened tonight,” he says, his tone firm but professional. “The injured kid on that table—when did his partner-in-crime leave, and did he say anything before he took off?”
I think back to the chaos of the ER. The gunman’s voice echoes faintly in my memory—desperate, raw, his words sharp like broken glass. Fix him. He’s all I’ve got left. “He didn’t say much. Just kept insisting we save his brother. Once we started moving him to the OR, I never saw him again. I'm not sure at what point he ghosted.”
The taller officer exchanges a glance with his partner. “So, he walked out during the transfer?”
I nod. “Looks that way. But I was more concerned about the kid bleeding out on the gurney than keeping track of him.”
The shorter officer jots something down, then looks up again. “Did he leave anything behind? A bag? A weapon?”
I glance back toward the OR, where Joey lies in recovery. “Not that I saw. But you’re welcome to search the area. He was in triage room four. I'm not sure if they've used the room since, but besides this, it has been fairly quiet, so chances are it is still preserved.”
The taller cop gives a sharp nod. “We’ll need to follow up with a formal statement.”
“Of course,” I reply, keeping my tone polite but firm. “But as I said, I’m a surgeon, not an investigator. My job was getting him into surgery. I'm not sure I have anything else helpful.”
The shorter officer scribbles one more note before snapping his notebook shut. “Thanks, Doc. We’ll be in touch.”
I nod once and watch them leave. As the doors swing shut behind them, I take a deep breath and head toward the scrub room. The blood might be off my hands, but the knot in my chest says this isn’t over.
9:57 PM
The adrenaline from the OR is still buzzing faintly in my veins, but the tension in my shoulders feels heavier now, knotted by the questions I couldn’t answer and the ones I didn’t ask.
I pull my phone from the pocket of my scrub top, hesitating for half a second before tapping out a message.
Hey, stranger renegade nurse extraordinaire. Long time no see!
Where are you? Can you take a break?
Coffee’s on me.
I stare at my texts. It seems a little manic, but what just went down for our reunion deserves a little mania. And, plus, I want to catch up.
I didn’t even know she was back at UAB. The last time I saw her was two years ago, before she left for a travel nursing gig, and she hasn't been back since.
There was that one night a few months before she left. The one we never talked about. The one that was just... what it was. Friends crossing a line for one night and going back to normal the next day. It happens all the time, but not usually with such a cool chick.
I do often wonder how fun it would be if she still worked here full-time. I'm not a one-girl kind of guy, but I could certainly get excited about a friend with return benefits.
She threw herself into the traveling nurse life, and it was a good six months before any of us heard from her after she left. It felt like a clean break. There was no awkwardness, no fallout. But I miss her sarcasm and fun personality around.
We’ve kept in touch, though—not often, but enough. A random text here, a check-in call there. And now, after all this time, she’s standing in my ER like she never left. Confident. Steady. Completely in control.
It threw me tonight, seeing her like that. But if she’s back, even temporarily, I need to catch up. Weird that she didn't give me a heads up that she was coming to Birmingham before beckoning me to the gun-to-the-head operation.
I shove the phone back into my pocket. She's usually on the triage floor, so I'll stop by there once I chart my surgery.
10:21 PM
The rooftop dining area is quiet this late at night. The city skyline glows faintly beyond the hospital. I lean back in the metal chair, my coffee steaming in front of me, and glance across the table at Harper.
She’s unwrapping a muffin like it owes her money. Her movements are brisk, efficient, and completely unbothered by the fact that we’ve just had the kind of night ER horror stories are made of.
“I gotta say,” I start as I take a sip of coffee, “you really know how to make an entrance. Not even twenty-four hours back at UAB, and you’re already dragging me into hostage situations. Is this your new thing, or were you just trying to make a memorable first impression?”
She looks up, one eyebrow arched, and smirks. “Oh, absolutely. Nothing says ‘Hey, old friend’ like waving a gun around and demanding medical attention.”
“Nice. I see you’re still as much as a smart ass as ever,” I deadpan, and she snorts.
Her laugh catches me off guard for a second. It’s been years, but it sounds the same—sharp and quick, like she’s holding back just enough to make me wonder if I’m funny or if she’s laughing at me.
“You didn’t even give me a heads-up you were back in town,” I say, leaning forward and resting my elbows on the table. “I had to figure it out while trying not to get shot. I think you better fess up, little lady. No more holding back.”
She rolls her eyes, breaking off a piece of muffin and popping it in her mouth. “This assignment came through at the last minute. I barely had time to pack a bag, let alone send you a smoke signal. I know you're used to all the ladies throwing themselves at you, but I happen to have a life.”
"Ouch. Coming in hot."
"You know I'm just messing with you. I honestly haven't a minute to breathe. It's good to see you. Like a fine wine, you keep getting better with time."
“Oh, cheesy lines aren't your thing. You've got better than that.”
“I mean it. You look good,” she says with a little less sarcasm than is her norm.
"You, too. It was a nice surprise to get your text that you were at the hospital. I just had no idea what I was walking into."
“That’s why I made sure to schedule our reunion during an active crisis. Very dramatic. Very on-brand for us.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Touché.”
“So how’d you get roped into that mess anyway?”
Her smile fades slightly, replaced by a more thoughtful expression. She sets the muffin down, brushing crumbs from her fingers. “I was cleaning up the table from my last triage when the guy rolled in, pushing his brother in a wheelchair. The kid was bleeding everywhere. I'm not sure how he got past the front desk, but he grabbed me because I was the first person he saw. Lucky me.”
I watch her carefully, trying to read the flicker of something in her eyes—fear, maybe, or adrenaline that hasn’t fully burned out yet. But it’s gone as quickly as it came.
“And you just... went along with it?” I ask, more curious than critical.
“What was I supposed to do?” She shrugs. “The guy was scared out of his mind, and his brother was dying. It wasn’t exactly an ideal situation, but it wasn’t complicated, either. Keep him calm. Keep the kid alive. Simple math.”
“Simple,” I echo dryly. “Sure. Real textbook stuff. Thanks for making me your accomplice.”
“I knew you’d come,” she says simply, meeting my eyes. “No questions, no stalling—you’d just show up and deal with it. And I figured a calm, smart surgeon was my best bet for keeping the situation de-escalated while saving the kid. Clearly, I was right.”
The compliment catches me off guard. Harper’s not the type to throw those around lightly, and it lands heavier than I expect.
“Well,” I say after a minute, letting a slow grin spread across my face, “I’m glad you didn’t settle for just any surgeon. Imagine how boring this reunion would’ve been.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “God forbid anything about you be boring, Jonah. You’d probably self-destruct out of sheer principle.”
“Guilty as charged.” I raise my coffee cup in a mock toast. “Here’s to the most chaotic reunion of all time.”
She raises her muffin in response, her lips twitching into a smile. “And here’s to the hope that the rest of my time at UAB is a little less... life-threatening.”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” I say, leaning back and watching her with a mix of curiosity and something I can’t quite name. She’s changed since the last time I saw her—steadier, sharper somehow—but underneath all of that, she’s still Harper.
Now, to find out if we still have some of those benefits to cash in…