8. Josh
Chapter eight
Josh
The door clicks shut behind me, and I make it four steps before Iris cries.
My hand closes around the strap of my hospital bag.
The crying comes through the solid apartment door. Small but furious. Inside, Liv says something I can’t make out, but the tone is obvious.
Low.
Steady.
Trying to calm the baby down without escalating the panic.
I stop in the middle of the hall. Why aren’t my feet moving? I’ve walked out of this building on four hours of sleep and never once looked back.
The elevator is only twelve steps away. The hospital is six blocks away.
And Liv is on the other side of my door with a baby she didn’t even know existed twelve hours ago. Right now, she is supposed to be doing last-minute packing for a two-week vacation. Instead, she is trapped in my apartment, terrified she’s going to drop an infant.
I should go back in.
I turn halfway back. The keypad waits beside the frame, its numbers dark. All I have to do is reach for it.
Inside, Iris fusses louder.
“I-ris. I-ris,” Liv says, dropping into a gentle, sing-song cadence.
My hand lifts. My index finger stops a fraction of an inch from the keypad. Inside, a soft, rhythmic squeak starts up. Liv shifting her weight from foot to foot, bouncing Iris on the hardwood in the living room.
“How about we make a deal?” Liv says.
Iris fusses, a short, unhappy sound, and the squeaking rhythm gets faster.
“No more atomic tomato,” Liv bargains. “And in exchange...”
A long pause.
I can picture her perfectly. Barefoot, hair falling out of its knot, trying to think of leverage.
“...I will spoil you with a ridiculously cute outfit.”
She is using a Manhattan shopping spree to bribe a four-month-old into a truce.
“We’ll get a fancy stroller,” Liv promises, her voice softer now, soothing. “And I can show you the neighborhood.”
Iris’s fussing drops to a soft hiccup. Then, quiet.
Seven years I knew this woman. I never heard her use that voice.
My hand stays suspended over the keypad. I want to be in that kitchen with her. I want to drop my bag, lean against the counter, and just watch her.
Moments ago, she was terrified of getting the hold wrong. Now she’s closing deals with the toughest opponent.
I slowly pull my hand back and let my arm drop to my side. She doesn’t need me to rescue her.
The elevator dings behind me, and my pager fires against my hip. I pull it free and read the screen.
MVA. Bay Two. ETA nineteen minutes.
Motor vehicle accident. Bay Two is our primary trauma room. A nineteen-minute transport means the ambulance is coming off the highway. High speeds. Major collision.
I glance at the elevator indicator. Still stuck on four. Too slow.
I turn and shove through the heavy fire door to the stairs.
The stairwell shuts behind me with a flat metal clang. My shoes hit the concrete, moving fast. Seven floors down. By the sixth, I start running through the likely injuries from a high-speed wreck — steering wheel impacts, crushed ribs, failing airways.
When I hit the fifth-floor landing, my head returns to the other side of my apartment door. Listening to Liv negotiate with a four-month-old over a ridiculously cute outfit.
My phone rings as I reach the lobby.
Martinez.
I answer before the second ring. “Miller.”
“Dr. Miller, incoming trauma. Driver from a crash on the FDR. They’re bringing him to Bay Two.”
“Who’s there?” I ask.
“Torres and Cho.”
“I’m six blocks out,” I say, picking up my pace. “I’ll be there in five.”
I run to the p
ETA twelve. Worsening.
I hang up and start running.
The hospital doors open before I reach them. Security sees me coming and waves me through. I run to the empty locker room and quickly change.
No message from Liv. No missed call. I open our thread and stare at the blank space where my hand seems to think I can fix something with three typed words.
You’ve got this.
The line looks wrong the second it appears.
Too late.
Too easy.
Too far away.
I delete it.
Someone calls for Martinez in the hall. A cart rattles past the locker room door. The department is already moving without me, which means I should put the phone down, scrub in, and go do the work I know how to do.
Instead, I stand there another second, holding a phone with nothing on it.
She will check eventually.
She will find silence.
Maybe she will know I meant trust.
Maybe she will think I left her alone with a baby, a schedule taped inside my cabinet, and every reason to believe I am still choosing the hospital first.
I lock the phone and leave it in my locker.
By the time I reach Bay Two, the room is ready. Torres has gloves on. Cho is at the head of the bed. Martinez stands near the ambulance doors with his phone in one hand and his eyes on the bay.
“Status,” I say.
“Two minutes,” Martinez says. “Driver. Blunt chest trauma. Pressure dropping.”
“Tray?”
“Open,” Torres says. “Blood is here.”
“Good. Cho, you have the airway. Torres, left chest. Martinez, stay on pressure.”
Ninety seconds.
The room is perfectly prepared, perfectly quiet. All I can do is wait.
And all I can think about is Liv handing me a color-coded feeding schedule and admitting she was terrified. I told her I trusted her.
I do.
I don’t think I could trust anyone more.
Trusting Liv is easy when I am standing next to her with my hands over hers.
It is harder from six blocks away with a phone I did not use and a baby crying behind a door I did not open.
The ambulance doors crash open, and the gurney comes in fast.
Male, mid-thirties. Pale. Neck veins up. Chest uneven. The paramedic at the head is bagging hard, jaw locked.
“Blunt trauma. Driver. Pressure forty-four. Left side silent.”
“Transfer on three,” I say.
We move him over.
After that, the room narrows to what matters. Airway. Blood. Chest. Hands.
Here, the next step is clear.
Here, nobody needs me to know how much to say, or when to stay, or whether leaving is trust if the person you leave is Liv.
“Scalpel.”
Torres places it in my palm.
I know exactly where to put my hands.
I make the incision.