Chapter 2
Karina
My pulse quickens as the sirens grow closer and louder, not with fear but with readiness. The double doors fly open with a crash, and paramedics rush in with an air of absolute urgency, wheeling in a man whose life is precariously balanced on the edge.
“Multiple contusions, suspected internal bleeding,” one of the medics reports briskly as I step forward to meet the incoming gurney.
“Let’s move, people!” I command as the team of nurses gathers around the stretcher. Each member is aware of their role, yet all eyes turn to me for direction.
“Let’s get him intubated, stat. We need a full panel…
” My orders flow like rapid fire as I take in the man’s ashen complexion, the erratic, labored rise and fall of his chest—an undeniable cry for immediate intervention.
The patient’s skin is clammy beneath my gloved fingers as I examine the extent of his injuries.
His face is a roadmap of lacerations, and his blood-matted dark hair sparks memories of my father’s accident years ago.
I blink and push them away. I can’t afford to go there right now, not when this stranger’s life depends on my focus.
“Blood pressure’s eighty over fifty, dropping!” a nurse shouts.
“Start him on norepinephrine. Keep those numbers up,” I instruct without missing a beat, my hands steady as I slide a laryngoscope into the patient’s mouth, exposing his vocal cords. “Hang in there,” I murmur, the words as much a mantra for myself as for the unconscious man before me.
“Karina, we need you to make the call on surgery,” another voice interjects, heavy with the gravity of the situation.
I nod, my mind already racing through protocols and possibilities. “Push another unit of O-neg and prep for emergency surgery. I need an ultrasound to confirm internal bleeding.”
This is the paradox of emergency medicine, the exhilarating rush of saving lives contrasted with the crushing weight of knowing sometimes it’s not enough. I’ve lost patients before, and it’s not a good feeling. Their faces haunt my dreams on the nights I manage to sleep at all.
The ultrasound confirms what I suspected: his abdomen is filling with blood, fast. The spleen is likely ruptured, maybe the liver too.
“Call upstairs. Tell them we’re coming with a priority trauma. Have an OR ready.”
We’re rushing him toward the elevator when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I know without looking it’s my mother. Third time today. She needs money again; it’s always money.
“Doctor Reyes? Are you coming?” The elevator doors are open, waiting. I silence my phone and step inside, watching the numbers climb as we ascend to surgery.
“Stay with us,” I whisper to the patient as his vitals continue to fluctuate. I don’t know if he can hear me, but I say it anyway.
The surgical team awaits us, gowned and ready. As I transfer care, giving them the information they need, I feel that familiar tug of reluctance. Letting go is always the hardest part—relinquishing control, trusting others to finish what I started.
“Good work, Dr. Reyes,” the chief surgeon says, but I barely hear the compliment.
My thoughts are already splintering between the patient I’m leaving behind, the inevitable next emergency downstairs, and the unanswered calls from my mother that will end in yet another argument.
“Go get some rest,” he adds, and little does he know rest is a stranger I seldom entertain.
I take one last look at the patient. “Will do,” I lie smoothly, already thinking of the patient charts in need of review. I head to the break room for some quiet before diving back into the madness I call life.
My back finds solace against the cool wall as I slide down, pulling my knees up.
My breath slows, giving me a moment of peace.
But then the break room door swings open and Cassie strides in, her red curls bouncing with each determined step.
She spots me on the floor. “Rough one, huh?” She sits down beside me, brushing her shoulder against mine. “Wanna talk about it?”
I shake my head, a wry smile forming on my lips. “You know me, Cass. I’d rather stitch myself up than spill my guts.”
“Ain’t that the truth. But hey, I’m here if you change your mind. Lord knows you’ve been my sounding board more times than I can count.”
“Thanks. I just need a minute, you know? To process. To breathe.”
Cassie nods. “Take all the time you need, girl. I’ll hold down the fort. Well, as much as a nurse can.” She pushes herself up, dusting off her scrubs. “But don’t think you’re off the hook. Drinks tonight. Non-negotiable.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I chuckle.
With a final salute, Cassie disappears, leaving me alone with my thoughts once more.
I close my eyes, letting my head fall back against the wall.
In the stillness, I can almost hear the whispers of the lives I’ve touched; the ones I’ve saved and those I’ve lost. Each one is a reminder of the weight I carry.
The responsibility. The privilege. But it’s a weight I bear willingly because this is my calling.
My purpose. I’ll keep fighting. Keep pushing. Keep reaching for the light.
Because, in the end, that’s all we can do. We rise, time and again, no matter the odds.
We enter the bar, and Cassie guides us to two empty stools, waving to the bartender as we sit. “Two Long Islands, and make them strong,” she calls out. The bartender nods. Cassie turns to me, eyebrows raised. “It’s busy tonight.”
“It sure is. You would think it’s a Saturday, not Thursday.” I look around at all the people packed inside Riley’s. I didn’t see a sign about half-price drinks. So, I’ll assume everyone had a rough day, like me.
“All right, spill. What’s going on in that head of yours? You’ve been all over the place lately.”
A glass appears before me and I wrap my fingers around it, taking a slow sip to gather my thoughts.
I don’t like to talk about my problems because no one can help.
And at the end of the day, it’s still my problem.
But knowing Cassie, she isn’t going to let up.
“It’s my mom,” I finally say. “Her calls are becoming increasingly demanding.”
She frowns, propping her elbow on the sticky bar top. “What did Hurricane Gabby want this time?” Cassie has always seen my mother for who she truly is: manipulative, demanding, larger-than-life.
“The usual,” I reply wryly. “Money for the twins’ college fund that she refuses to contribute to.
Guilt trips about how I don’t visit enough.
As if visit doesn’t equal dishing out more money than I have.
” I shake my head, anger and hurt churning in my gut.
“She doesn’t care about me. I’m just a resource to be tapped. ”
At times, I wonder how I ended up with her as a mother. We couldn’t be more different. The amount of love and care she has for the twins is noticeable from a mile away. When I reflect on my childhood, I don’t think she ever showed me that type of motherly affection.
Correction, there were moments of motherly love…
until the twins were born. For eight years, I was an only child.
And my mother doted on me, as if I were the apple of her eye.
Then the boys came, and her source of love for me diminished.
Nothing I did was ever good enough. I’m unsure I would have coped without my father’s love to make up for it.
Cassie reaches out and squeezes my hand.
“Hey, look at me,” she says gently. “You’re so much more than that.
You’re talented, caring, one hell of a doctor, and the best bestie anyone can ever have.
” She pauses, holding my gaze. “Don’t let your mother’s words or actions tear you down. You’re amazing, Rina.”
I squeeze her hand back, offering a small smile. She always knows exactly what to say. “Thank you. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
She grins. “Crash and burn, obviously.” She takes a sip of her drink and glances around. “This is super random, but have you ever noticed how many firefighter photos they’ve got in this place?”
I angle away from the bar and follow her gaze.
It doesn’t take me long to understand her curiosity.
The walls are lined with them, each frame capturing vivid moments of bravery and teamwork.
There’s an entire section dedicated to candid shots of fire crews in action, with some black-and-white images of fire engines that give the place a historic and almost sacred feel.
It has character, I’ll give it that.
With its dim lighting casting a warm glow over the worn-out booths, Riley’s is what we New Yorkers call a hidden gem.
A place that never changes, regardless of gentrification or trends.
The leather booths are torn and patched up with duct tape, adding charm more than diminishing it.
The floors are scuffed and usually filthy, and the DJ booth hasn’t worked in years, but looking around, none of the regulars care.
If anything, the throwback ’90s to early-2000s music playing from the bartender’s laptop is a hit with this weekday crowd.
“Yeah, these are stations 112 and 118. Also…” I point to one of the photos with a firefighter and Mr. Riley. “That’s Thomas Montgomery, station 112’s old captain. Saved this place from burning down,” I tell her.
“How do you know all this?” Cassie’s eyebrows come together.
I shrug and take a sip of my cocktail. “A few months ago, one of their firefighters tried to flirt with me.” I pause to chuckle at the And I’m just hearing about this now?
look she’s giving me. “The way he was talking about it, you would have thought he saved the building.” I grab a handful of nuts from the bowl on the bar, avoiding her curious gaze.
“Anyway, moving on, how have you been? Anything new? Love life? I feel like we haven’t spoken in weeks. ”