14. Lost and Found
CHAPTER 14
Lost and Found
“ M ultiple teams incoming,” Sofia called as I reached the trauma bay. “First ambulance, two minutes out.”
The boy arrived in a chaos of sirens and shouting, paramedics rattling off stats that painted an increasingly desperate picture. Dark curls peeked out from the emergency blanket, Spider-Man pajamas visible where it had slipped. His small hand found mine as we transferred him to the trauma table, fingers ice-cold against my palm.
“Hey buddy,” I said, keeping my voice steady as we worked. “I'm Dr. Monroe. We're going to take good care of you, okay?”
His eyes flickered open briefly – beautiful brown eyes full of complete trust. “Tommy,” he whispered. “My name's Tommy.”
“Nice to meet you, Tommy. Can you squeeze my hand for me?”
The weak pressure of his fingers sent warning signals through my professional awareness. Too weak, too slow, but still fighting. Still here.
We moved with desperate efficiency, my team anticipating orders before I had to voice them. Sofia handled the parents – I caught glimpses of their terror-white faces through the trauma room windows, heard fragments of her gentle explanations as we worked.
“Type and cross four units,” I ordered, noting Tommy's falling pressure. “Get me the ultrasound. Where's my surgical consult?”
Each intervention bought seconds, then minutes, but I could read the trajectory in dropping numbers and failing responses. My hands never shook as we placed lines, administered medications, fought against injuries that would challenge an adult body, let alone one so small.
“Staying with us, Tommy?” I asked between procedures. “Keep fighting, buddy. You're doing great.”
His eyes opened again, finding mine with that same absolute trust. “It hurts,” he whispered.
“I know.” I squeezed his hand gently. “But you're being so brave. Just hold on a little longer.”
The monitor's wail cut through everything else.
“No pulse,” someone called. “Starting compressions.”
My hands moved to Tommy's chest automatically, finding the precise spot for pediatric CPR. His ribs felt like bird bones beneath my palms as I started compressions. One-two-three-four...
“Push one of epi,” I ordered. “Charge to 120.”
The defibrillator whined as it charged. Tommy's Spider-Man pajamas had been cut away, leaving him looking impossibly small on the trauma table. One-two-three-four...
“Clear!”
His tiny body jerked with the current. The monitor showed no change.
“Again. Charging to 150.”
One-two-three-four... My arms began to ache, but I wouldn't let anyone take over compressions. Not yet. Not while there was still a chance.
“Dr. Monroe.” Sofia's voice carried gentle warning. “Eli. ”
“Push another round of epi,” I said instead of acknowledging her tone. “Where's my surgical consult?”
“Eli.” Her hand found my shoulder, squeezed gently. “He's gone.”
I kept counting compressions, kept watching the monitor for any sign of response. One-two-three-four...
“Time of death, 3:22 AM.”
My voice came out steady, professional. My hands didn't shake as I stripped off my gloves, as I documented the time, as I prepared to face Tommy's parents. They didn't shake, but for the first time in my career, I wished they would.
Sofia followed me into the quiet room where Tommy's parents waited. Their eyes found mine immediately, hoping for miracle I couldn't give.
“I'm so sorry,” I said softly. “We did everything we could, but Tommy's injuries were too severe.”
The mother's cry would haunt my dreams – a sound of pure anguish that cut through every professional defense I'd built. The father caught her as she crumpled, his own tears silent but no less devastating.
Sofia found me later in my office, staring at nothing. “You did everything right,” she said quietly. “His injuries were incompatible with?—”
“I know.” My hands curled into fists on my desk. “I know the statistics, the probability curves, the medical reality. I know.”
“Eli.” Just my name, but it carried decades of friendship and concern. “You can't save everyone. You know that.”
“He was eight years old.” My voice cracked slightly. “He was wearing superhero pajamas.”
“I know.” She reached across the desk, covered my clenched fist with her hand. “I know.”
Soon the day shift would arrive, bright and fresh and unaware. New traumas would come in. Life would continue its endless cycle .
But somewhere in this city, parents were living their worst nightmare. A child's bedroom stood empty, Spider-Man sheets still rumpled from his last sleep. And my hands... my steady surgeon's hands that never shook... they felt heavier than they ever had before.
“Dr. Monroe?” The nurse's voice was gentle. “Tommy's parents are here. They'd like to speak with you.”
My heart stumbled, but my face remained professionally composed. The small consultation room felt too tight, too warm as they entered – their grief a tangible thing that pressed against the walls, that made the air thick and heavy.
“Thank you for seeing us,” Tommy's father said. His voice cracked on the words. “We just... we need to understand.”
I walked them through it again – every intervention, every attempt, every moment we'd fought to save their son. My voice stayed steady, clinical enough to provide distance but gentle enough to show care. This was what I did. What I'd always done. Professional walls protecting everyone from the raw edges of loss.
But then Tommy's mother reached for my hands.
“These hands,” she whispered, her fingers trembling against mine. “These were the last hands to touch my baby's heart.”
Something inside me fractured. Her grip felt desperate, like she was trying to find some last connection to her son through my touch. My carefully maintained composure wavered as she held on, as her tears fell onto our joined fingers.
“He was so brave,” I heard myself say, my voice rougher than usual. “He fought so hard.”
Sofia materialized beside me, her presence steady and grounding. But I saw the concern in her eyes, felt how she shifted slightly closer as if to catch me if I fell.
“Did he say anything?” Tommy's father asked. “At the end?”
The truth would only hurt them more. “He wasn't in pain,” I said instead. “He wasn't afraid.”
They clung to each other as they left, supporting each other through unimaginable loss. I watched them go, my hands still feeling the ghost of a grieving mother's touch .
The rest of my shift passed in a blur of motion and routine. My hands moved through familiar patterns – suturing lacerations, signing charts, performing procedures that would normally ground me in the present. But my mind kept returning to small hands: Tommy's going slack in my grip, his fingers so cold at the end.
“Dr. Monroe?” Dr. Yang's voice pulled me back to the present. She held out a chart tentatively. “The labs you requested...”
I signed without really seeing the numbers, my signature perfectly legible despite the tremor I couldn't quite suppress. The staff watched me with careful concern, whispering when they thought I couldn't hear.
Even Vale, passing in the corridor, studied me with an expression I'd never seen on him before. Something almost like understanding crossed his features before his usual mask slipped back into place.
Dawn painted my office windows in colors that felt wrong after such loss. I stared at my hands – steady enough to save lives, useless when it mattered most. The knock at my door startled me.
Vale entered without his usual assertive presence. For once, there was no political maneuvering in his stance, no hidden agenda in his approach. Just a cup of coffee placed carefully on my desk, and something in his eyes that looked almost like kindness.
“Sometimes,” he said quietly, “the weight becomes too much to carry alone.”
I stared at the coffee, then at him, trying to reconcile this version of Vale with the man who'd been undermining my department for months. “Why are you here?”
“Because I remember.” He settled into the chair across from me, his usual sharp edges somehow softer. “I remember what it feels like to lose a child under your care. To have all your skill, all your knowledge mean nothing in the end.”
Something in his voice made me look up. His eyes held shadows I'd never noticed before, grief that felt older than our hospital rivalry.
“It doesn't get easier,” he continued softly. “It shouldn't get easier. But you learn to carry it. To let it remind you why we do this impossible thing.”
“Why are you being kind to me?” The question came out more raw than I intended.
His smile held no calculation for once, just tired understanding. “Because some burdens transcend politics. Some pains deserve recognition, even between... opponents.”
We sat in strange, almost comfortable silence as dawn strengthened outside. The coffee grew cold between us, but its presence felt like an offering, like a momentary truce in whatever game we usually played.
“How do you do it?” I asked finally. “How do you keep going when your best isn't enough?”
“You honor the ones you couldn't save by fighting harder for the next one.” He stood, straightening his perfect suit. “And you remember that even the steadiest hands sometimes need to shake.”
My hands still felt heavy with the weight of Tommy's trust, with the grief of his mother's touch. But somehow Vale's words had helped, had given permission for the tremor I'd been fighting all night.
Sometimes the steadiest hands need to shake.
Sometimes the strongest walls need to crack.
Sometimes even healers need to break a little, to remember why they heal at all.
I picked up the coffee Vale had brought – a peace offering, a recognition, a moment of humanity between adversaries. Its warmth had faded, but something of its intention remained.
Vale hadn't moved from his chair, his presence unusually still in my normally private space. The coffee between us had gone completely cold, but neither of us seemed inclined to acknowledge it. Something had shifted in the quiet dawn light, some wall lowered that I hadn't even known existed.
“I'm placing you on leave,” Vale said finally, his voice lacking its usual sharp edge. “Two weeks, paid. Time to...” He paused, choosing his words with unusual care. “Process recent events.”
I stiffened. “You don’t have the authority to do that.”
“We’re both department heads,” he acknowledged. “Neurology doesn’t outrank Emergency—not in any real way.” He met my glare without flinching. “Which is why I went to the board first.”
Anger flared, burning through the exhaustion weighing me down. “You went over my head?”
“You left me no choice,” he countered smoothly. “You haven’t taken a single day off since—“ He stopped, but we both knew what he meant.
“My department is running fine,” I shot back. “I don’t need a forced vacation.”
“You argued the same thing with them,” he said. “And yet, here we are.”
My protest had been automatic, more reflex than real conviction, and Vale had met each of my points with the same quiet certainty. Still, I found myself really looking at him for perhaps the first time. Shadows lurked under his eyes, something that looked remarkably like regret aging his usually perfect features.
“Is this official censure?” I asked, but we both knew it wasn’t.
His smile held no triumph, only a tired understanding that felt strangely familiar. “No. This is... one doctor recognizing when another needs space to breathe.”
The words themselves were simple enough, but something in his tone made my exhausted mind stutter. Vale had never shown this side before.
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The usual push and pull between us had quieted into something else, something unfamiliar. I should have kept fighting, should have insisted that I was fine. But the truth was, I wasn’t even sure what “fine” was supposed to feel like anymore.
Vale exhaled, a slow, measured breath. “Take the leave, Dr. Monroe.” His voice carried something I'd never heard from him before—not quite kindness, but perhaps its older cousin. “Some patterns need to be broken.”
A knock interrupted whatever response I might have formed. Sofia stood in my doorway, concern written clearly across her features.
Vale rose smoothly, his usual polished demeanor settling back into place like armor. But something of that shared understanding lingered in his eyes as he nodded to both of us.
“Two weeks,” he reminded me. “Not a day less.”
I watched him leave, trying to reconcile this version of him with the man who'd been my professional nemesis for so long.
Sofia lingered nearby, watching me with that sharp, assessing gaze of hers. After a beat, she crossed her arms. “What was that about?”
I let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over my face. “Vale had me put on leave. Two weeks, paid.” The words felt strange coming out of my mouth, like they belonged to someone else.
Her brows lifted. “He can do that?”
“He got it approved before he even came to me,” I muttered, shaking my head. “Apparently, arguing was just a formality.”
Sofia sighed, then reached for my bag, helping me gather my things with the same steady presence that had kept me from completely unraveling more times than I could count. “He’s right, you know,” she said softly. “About needing space sometimes.”
“I don't know how to do this,” I admitted quietly. “How to just... stop. Take time.”
“Maybe that's exactly why you need to.” Sofia squeezed my shoulder gently. “Two weeks to process not just today, but everything else that's been happening. All the changes, all the memories, all the things you've been trying so hard to rationalize away.”
The sun had fully risen now, painting the hospital in colors that felt both foreign and achingly familiar. Two weeks stretched ahead – time I hadn't allowed myself since Michael's death. Time to face not just today's loss but all the questions I'd been avoiding.
“Will you be alright?” I asked Sofia, doctor's instinct making me worry about leaving my department.
Her smile held fond exasperation. “We managed without you before you were chief. We'll manage for two weeks.” She started gathering files I'd been reaching for. “No work. Vale's orders, and for once, I agree with him.”
“That's a first.”
“Maybe he's human after all.” She paused, considering. “The way he looked at you just now... I've never seen that expression on his face before. Like he understood exactly what you're going through.”
“Maybe he does.”
We finished packing in comfortable silence. The hospital hummed around us, life's endless cycle continuing despite personal griefs. Somewhere in this building, other healers' hands were saving lives, losing battles, carrying on the eternal dance between skill and fate.
“Go home,” Sofia said gently. “Rest. Let yourself feel whatever you need to feel.”
I nodded, gathering my coat with hands that couldn't quite stop trembling.
“Some patterns need to be broken,” I murmured, echoing Vale's words.
Sofia looked at me sharply, but didn't comment. Instead, she just hugged me – quick but fierce, professional distance set aside for friendship's sake.
“Call if you need anything,” she said. “Day or night.”
I walked out of my office feeling strangely light, as if setting down burdens I hadn't known I carried. The hospital corridors held different shadows in the morning light, showing me new angles to a place I thought I knew completely.
Two weeks to process, to remember, to understand why today's loss had cracked something open that felt older than my current grief. Two weeks to face whatever memories kept surfacing, whatever truths kept trying to break through my careful walls.
Maybe Vale was right. Maybe some patterns did need to be broken.
Maybe healing hands sometimes needed to shake, to remember why they healed at all.
For now, I let Sofia guide me out, let her steady presence anchor me to this moment rather than all the ones pressing at the edges of my mind. My phone felt heavy in my pocket, Alex's offered comfort waiting like a lifeline I wasn't quite ready to grab.
One step at a time. One breath at a time. One moment at a time.
Until my hands remembered how to be steady again.
Until I understood why Vale's eyes had held such ancient understanding when he looked at me over cooling coffee and lowered walls.
Two weeks.
Time to remember.
Time to understand.
Time to heal.