"Status check!" Mama Ortiz is yelling into the radio handset. "ETA on the first transport?"
I stop at the desk, breathless.
“Negative on transport,”the paramedic’s voice crackles over the speaker, sounding tinny and terrified.“Visibility is zero. The ambulances are crawling. They’re sliding all over the road. We have twenty-plus casualties. The bus is on its side. We have multiple entrapments.”
"Get them out!" Ortiz yells.
“We can’t!”the paramedic screams back.“We have crush injuries. We have active bleeds we can't reach, pinned under steel beams in the bus. If we wait for Fire to cut them out, they bleed out in the snow. We need a physician on scene. We need someone who can amputate and clamp in the field. But we can’t get rigs up the incline!”
My blood freezes.
Field amputation. Field triage.
Paramedics can intubate. They can push meds. They cannot perform surgery in a snowbank to free a trapped victim.
"I’m going," a voice says.
I spin around.
Jax is standing by the triage desk.
He is wearing his leather jacket over his scrubs. He has a 'Go Bag'—a massive tactical medical trauma kit—slung over his shoulder. In his gloved hand, he is gripping his keys.
He looks calm. Terrifyingly calm. This is the soldier.
"Dr. O'Connell, you can't," Ortiz argues, though she looks like she knows she can't stop him. "The roads are suicide. You heard them, the rigs can't make the incline."
"Which is why I'm not taking a rig," Jax says flatly.
He jingles his keys. The sound is sharp in the chaotic room.
"My Jeep can make it. It's got the clearance and the tires. It’s built for this."
"Jax," I breathe, stepping forward.
He looks up. Our eyes lock across the red-lit ER.
I see the "Zone" in his eyes. The absolute, unwavering focus on the mission. He knows the math. If he doesn't go, people die.
"Don't wait up, Princess," he says softly.
It’s not a joke. It’s a goodbye.
He turns and runs for the side door leading to the staff parking lot.
I sprint after him.
"Jax!" I scream.
I burst out the door into the swirling white hell. The wind is deafening.
I see him through the snow. He is running to his Wrangler, the only vehicle in the lot not buried under a drift. He scrapes a layer of ice off the windshield with his forearm in oneviolent motion.
He jumps into the driver’s seat. The engine roars to life—a raw, guttural sound that defies the storm.
He throws it into gear. The tires spin for a second, biting into the deep snow, and then the Jeep lurches forward.
I watch, frozen to the spot, as the Wrangler tears out of the parking lot. I catch a glimpse of the bumper sticker—BUT DID YOU DIE?—before it’s swallowed by the snow.
