Surgery went long. Still in the OR.
I respond:
Take your time. I'll be here.
Three dots appear, then disappear. Then:
Thank you.
Two simple words. They shouldn't mean as much as they do.
Commander Hartwell catches me in the hallway outside the briefing room. "Caine. Got a minute?"
"Sir."
We step into his office. He closes the door, gestures for me to sit. I remain standing.
"How's the protective detail going?"
"Dr. Abernathy is safe. No further incidents since the parking lot attack."
"And NCIS?"
"They're pursuing leads based on her documentation. Rivera seems confident they'll make arrests soon."
Hartwell nods slowly. "Good. The brass is concerned about supply chain vulnerabilities. If someone's systematically targeting trauma equipment, that's a national security issue."
"Understood, sir."
"You staying sharp on this, Caine? Protective detail isn't your usual assignment."
The question carries weight. He's asking if I'm compromised. If my focus is where it needs to be.
"Sharp," I say with more certainty than I feel.
Hartwell studies me for a long moment. "All right. Keep me updated. Dismissed."
I head straight to the hospital. Park in the lot where Gwen fought for her life and scan the area automatically—threats, vulnerabilities, escape routes.
Martinez is waiting outside the surgical suite. "She's in OR 3, sir. Been in there about an hour."
"I've got her from here. Thanks for covering."
"Yes, sir."
I position myself where I can see anyone who enters or exits. Hours pass. Staff come and go in scrubs, some recognizing me with a nod, others ignoring me entirely.
Late afternoon, Gwen emerges from the OR still in scrubs. Her face tells me everything before she says a word.
"Patient didn't make it," she says quietly. "Motorcycle accident. Multiple injuries. Internal bleeding we couldn't stop."
Her cheeks are dry, but exhaustion runs deeper than physical fatigue. Her scrubs have blood on them—not a lot, a small spray pattern on her left shoulder that she probably doesn't even know is there. Her hair is coming loose from whatever she did to keep it back during surgery, and there's a red line across her nose from where her surgical mask sat.
This is the cost of caring. The burden of trying to save everyone and knowing you can't.
"You hungry?"
She blinks at the subject change. "What?"
