Chapter 17 Rowan
ROWAN
The trauma bay runs on patterns I know well enough to feel in my bones.
Monitors rise and fall in even cycles, doing exactly what they’re meant to do.
Shoes move across the linoleum with intention instead of haste, the pace shaped by people who have handled far worse nights than this one.
Voices stay brief and professional, information exchanged cleanly and accepted without debate.
When the flow stays intact like this, my body relaxes before my mind has time to notice.
Tonight, everything is moving the way it should.
I circulate from room to room with my tablet tucked against my forearm, eyes scanning vitals, lab values, and post-op notes. A nurse murmurs an update as I pass. I nod once without slowing.
Another flags me down to confirm imaging results. I glance through the images, confirm what I already suspected, and give instructions that don’t need to be explained twice. The ease of it calms me. Knowing what to do and doing it well has always been where I feel most secure.
This is where I function best, where my mind stays quiet long enough to breathe. For a few minutes, the rest of my life recedes to the edges. Then my thoughts wander anyway.
Ethan’s laugh cuts into my thoughts, loud and unfiltered in the way only younger brothers get away with.
It pulls me back to his birthday dinner and the ease of that night.
I remember the way he leaned back in his chair, one arm hooked over the edge like he owned the space simply by existing in it.
And the way Mom kept fussing with the food, asking if anyone needed more before anyone had even finished what was already on their plates.
I remember how easy it felt. Not performative or tense, just… open.
And Kiren.
The thought of him slips in so smoothly that it takes me a second to realize I’ve allowed it.
I remember the way he stood in my mother’s kitchen at first, too still and aware of his size in a room built for comfort rather than authority.
He hadn’t tried to impress anyone. He hadn’t dominated the space.
He listened, watched, and offered to help without assuming he was needed, rolling up his sleeves to dry dishes beside Mom as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
I remember the way Ethan sized him up with open suspicion and how Kiren met it without defensiveness. Just quiet presence and focused attention. When Ethan finally relaxed, and his posture eased, and his voice warmed, Kiren noticed before anyone else and adjusted without comment.
He fit in without effort. Not by shrinking himself, but by understanding the space. The table felt fuller with him there. Not louder, but fuller, rooted in a way that made it feel as though he had always belonged in that room and was only now being noticed.
I push the thought aside as I step into the next bay. I check the clock mounted above the nurses’ station. Time moves at a pace I can work with, not pushing, and not lagging. It leaves me room to think. I straighten, roll my shoulders once, and bring my attention back where it belongs.
Then my phone vibrates once, short and intentional. I don’t reach for it immediately. Personal phones stay silent during shifts unless there’s a reason. Emergencies route through the hospital. Family knows that. Ethan especially knows that as an EMT.
The vibration comes again. My fingers still against the edge of the counter. An instinctive, immediate tightening takes hold low in my chest. I glance down.
Ethan.
The edges of the room pull in a little. Ethan doesn’t call me at work without a reason. Only when he’s run out of other options. I answer immediately, already heading for the quieter stretch of hallway near the supply rooms.
“Ro,” he opens.
The sound of his voice confirms what my body has already recognized. He isn’t panicked or afraid. He’s alert, professional, holding himself together with care, and that recognition pulls my focus razor-thin in a way fear never could.
“What’s going on?” I ask, keeping my voice calm even while my pulse begins to climb.
“We’ve been rerouted,” he replies. Road noise hums beneath his words. The ambulance engine vibrates through the line, a constant, low presence beneath his voice. “Dispatch changed the location last minute.”
“That happens,” I respond automatically, though my body rejects the reassurance. My grip tightens around the phone. “Why are you calling me?”
There’s a fractional pause, just long enough to matter.
“It doesn’t feel right,” he continues. “Scene layout’s off. No bystanders. No police presence like dispatch promised. And the address doesn’t match the call details.”
Cold understanding creeps up my spine, threading between my shoulders.
“Where are you now?” I ask.
“Just pulled up,” he answers. “Warehouse district near Ridley. We’re staged a few yards out.”
“Ethan,” I say carefully, slowing my steps. “Listen to me. If anything looks wrong, you do not—”
“I know,” he cuts in firmly. “That’s why I called. Can you pull anything on dispatch? I want eyes on this.”
I stop walking.
“I don’t have direct access from here. But I can call charge and—”
Another voice enters the background, not his partner’s. Male, calm, and close enough that there’s no need to raise his voice.
“Ethan?” I say, louder now.
Someone near him murmurs something I can’t make out. The tone is conversational and unhurried, but it sets my nerves on edge.
“Ro,” Ethan starts, his voice tightening just slightly, “if this drops—”
A sound cuts him off. Metal against metal. A sudden impact that rattles through the line. Then a sharp grunt.
The phone jolts. I hear fabric scrape. Breath rushes past the mic. Someone exhales, not in pain, but in exertion.
“Ethan,” I say, my voice breaking through my control despite my effort. “Ethan, answer me.”
Nothing.
Movement now. Feet on pavement. Another voice closer than before.
My stomach drops. I say his name again, slower this time, forcing control into each syllable.
“Ethan.”
No answer. The line stays open, filled only with breathing that isn’t his. Then the call ends. I stand frozen for half a second too long. Just long enough for the truth to lock into place.
This wasn’t confusion. This wasn’t a coincidence. This was an interception.
Then I move.
I turn on my heel and head back toward the nurses’ station, my stride brisk and purposeful. My badge swings against my scrub top with each step, the familiar pull a point of focus even as my thoughts race ahead.
“Charge,” I call, already lifting my voice. “I need confirmation on an inbound EMS unit. Possible assault.”
The charge nurse looks up immediately, reading my expression without question. “Which unit?”
“Unit Twelve,” I reply. “They were rerouted to Ridley. Something’s wrong.”
Her fingers fly across the keyboard. “Stand by.”
The smell of antiseptic sharpens my focus as I secure my hair. My breathing slows even as my thoughts fracture.
This is what I do. This is where I hold the line.
“Dr. Hale,” the charge nurse calls, her voice tight now. “Dispatch confirms Unit Twelve is inbound. Assault reported. Two injured.”
My jaw tightens.
“Details?” I ask.
She shakes her head once. “That’s all they’re giving.”
I glance at the clock again, tracking seconds as they pass. Each tick lands with absolute certainty. I picture the space without meaning to. The distance between the ambulance doors and the patient. Where Ethan would stand. How close someone would need to be to interrupt him mid-sentence.
Too close.
Sirens cut through the air outside, rising fast. The sound threads through the hospital walls, close enough now to sharpen every sense.
As the trauma bay moves into readiness, time starts behaving differently.
It doesn’t rush the way it does when chaos hits all at once.
There’s no surge yet, no gurneys to pull focus.
Just the hum of equipment, voices kept low at the nurses’ station, and a clock that moves too slowly to justify how fast my pulse is climbing.
I alert the charge nurse again, this time more firmly. She responds without question, assigning staff, clearing space, and preparing blood. No one asks me to explain myself. They don’t need to. They can see it on my face.
I scrub in at the sink, letting routine take over.
Soap, water, brush, the sequence is familiar enough that my hands don’t hesitate.
The sink throws my reflection back at me, pale and intent, my eyes too bright beneath the harsh lights.
My movements stay methodical despite the faint tremor in my fingers, which I rein in through habit rather than effort.
I match my breathing to the rhythm of water hitting porcelain until control returns where I need it.
This is not the first time I’ve waited for someone I love to come through those doors. The thought is unwelcome and intrusive, and I shut it down before it can fully form.
I pull on fresh gloves. The latex snaps softly against my wrists.
“ETA?” I ask, turning back toward the nurses’ station.
“Two minutes,” someone answers. “Maybe less.”
Two minutes is nothing. Two minutes is forever.
I move to the trauma bay entrance, positioning myself where I’ll see them first. My eyes stay fixed on the doors, even as my mind insists on replaying the last moments of the call.
Whoever intercepted them didn’t need speed. They needed access. They needed to know exactly where Ethan would be, where his attention would be directed, and how close they could get before he understood what was happening.
That realization takes hold with sickening clarity.
The bay doors slam open, and the waiting ends in a rush that feels almost violent. Sound rushes in first. Shouting. Footsteps. Wheels clattering against tile. The noise hits all at once, shattering the quiet like glass.
“Trauma incoming!”