CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
5:20 p.m.
Amy
Amy jumped as her phone vibrated on her hip, slicing her thoughts. She glanced at the message and, abandoning her cup of coffee, bolted through the heavy wooden door, where the triage nurse met her in the hallway, keeping pace with Amy as she delivered information. “Incoming, two minutes. One male, teen, GSW to the abdomen. Unresponsive. Pulse is faint. BP dropped during transport. Intubated at the scene.”
All Amy’s experience told her it was grim. “How long since the incident?”
“Less than ten minutes, but he’s critical. OR Five is prepped, we’ll bring him right there. You need to scrub in immediately. The paramedics said the family and the cops are on their way,” the nurse said. “Full moon tonight, it’s going to be a shit show.”
A flurry of activity from the ambulance entrance caught her attention, and as Amy turned the corner near the walk-in desk, someone shouted her name. Andrew. Her anger flared; he couldn’t show up at her job just because they’d had a fight. Their domestic drama didn’t belong in the hospital. You’re going to get me fired.
Andrew called to her again, his voice strange and desperate. Fear gripped her. Had he been drinking? Amy pushed the heavy double doors to the waiting room open, and Andrew ran to her.
“Andrew, are you all right?”
Blood soaked his shirt and pants. “Amy.” He grabbed her arms. “A boy just got here. I need you to help him.”
“Are you okay—what’s going on?”
Andrew was pale and sweaty. “You need to go now,” he pleaded.
“Were you in a car accident? They said it was a GSW—”
“Amy, please. Help him.” His body was trembling, and his grip on her arms was so tight it hurt.
“Andrew—”
“Andrew!” a woman cried, running through the double doors. “What happened—where is he?” She gasped, anguish painting her face.
A teenage girl ran to them, rushing to answer the woman’s questions, but her words were lost, the three talking over one another. Two police officers strode in, and one nodded to the other when they spotted Andrew. Amy had witnessed this scene countless times: desperate families grasping for answers, living the worst moments of their lives, when only hours ago—minutes, perhaps—they’d been blissfully unaware of what awaited them. But her husband didn’t fit into this picture.
“He’s going into surgery right now—” Andrew stammered. The woman howled, then fell against Andrew’s arms, clutched him as if the entire world would fall apart if she let him go. But Amy watched Andrew stiffen; then he turned, locked his gaze onto Amy, like she was the only person in the room. “Amy, please. Fix this. Fix him.”
“Dr. Williams.” Amy’s head snapped back to the doors behind intake. The triage nurse called out, “OR 5 is ready. You need to scrub in.”
Amy looked back to Andrew and the women, and the officers behind them. But she had to go. She was being called to her place, to the OR, away from her husband. She turned and ran down the hall.