Evonne looks back at me, eyes sharpening.
“Go on.”
“What if you didn’t have to wait for them to drag the wounded all the way up here?” I ask, my brain kicking into gear, the familiar hum of problem-solving buzzing under my skin. “What if we started an emergency response unit right here in the camp?”
She tilts her head. “An emergency response unit?”
“Yeah. You already have structure. Shifts. Foremen. Runners.” I gesture vaguely toward the Vein’s direction. “What if we train some of the miners—or guards—to be, essentially, your on-site EMTs? Basic trauma care. Bleeding control. Stabilization. Then they call for you or another healer to meet them halfway, instead of hauling half-dead bodies up all those dangerous shafts and tunnels.”
Evonne’s lips part.
I keep going because the more I talk, the more it clicks into place.
“Think about it,” I say, pacing a small circle. “You teach them how to assess. Is the person breathing, bleeding, conscious? Teach them how to splint a leg or staunch bleeding with what they’ve got on hand. How to keep a spine aligned. How to recognize when someone’s slipping into shock and what to do about it.”
“We have tonics that slow bleeding,” she murmurs, already thinking. “And salves that numb pain and slow infection. But many who bring the injured are too panicked or untrained to apply them correctly. Or they use them on the wrong wound.”
“Exactly,” I say, snapping my fingers. “So we make kits. Small ones. Belt pouches with your most important tonics and tools, clearly marked. We drill them on usage. You create a simple system—three steps, four max. Nothing complicated. In an emergency, people forget anything more.”
Evonne’s expression shifts from surprise to something like hope.
“Lady—Delia,” she corrects herself with a small smile. “You may not understand what you are suggesting.”
“Try me.”
She gestures around us.
“This camp serves the Vein. The miners and their families. The sentries. The forge-runners. If we had such an… emergency unit… in each major shaft, the time between injury and treatment could be cut in half, perhaps more.”
“Exactly.” My heart is racing now, but in a good way. “This is what we do back home. We figured out that waiting for people to come to the hospital was killing them. So we took the hospital to them. Or at least the first ten minutes of it.”
Evonne exhales slowly, as if something inside her just eases.
Evonne listens, lips pressed thin, eyes distant like she’s seeing every patient she’s ever lost.
“I have wished for more hands for years,” she admits finally. “More fully trained healers. But all of our acolytes must be sent to the sanctums in the Tidal Lands or the Rooted Marches. We do not have the resources to keep many here permanently.”
She sighs, glancing toward the entrance. “And most of the able-bodied men are already in the mines. We cannot spare them easily. Every set of hands is counted three times before a shift is assigned.”
“Okay, but, what about the women? Do they mine?” I ask.
“No, females are not allowed to mine,” she shakes her head.
“Then, surely there are some who could be trained? Who might actually be interested?” I ask.
Evonne blinks, like the thought hadn’t fully landed before.
“Well, these are working folk,” she says slowly. “The women usually tend the homes. Keep the fires, mend the clothing, cook, teach their daughters to do the same.” Her mouth twists, wry.
“But you’re a healer?” I ask, clearly confused.
“Yes, well, that is simply how it has always been. I am the exception, not the rule.”
“Why not ask, then?” I press gently. “Why not see if there are some who might like jobs outside the home? Or even just training? Part-time response teams, Healer’s assistants, something.”
She goes very still.
Then she huffs out a soft, incredulous laugh.
