“Tristan, what was his lactate?”
“Don’t worry about it. It doesn’t change what we’re going to do, so focus on what you can control. Now what’s the dosage?”
I want to argue, but that tremor in my hands is getting worse as a deep sense of foreboding washes through me.
When I was little, I thought I was going to see Tadhg die a hundred times. Every time his dad got too angry, or Pat wasgone and my mom got too high and neglectful. But I was a weak, helpless little kid back then, and as awful as it would have been, I think I would have forgiven myself, eventually. Or Pat would have killed me, too.
Getting him back, being stunned by how fucking relieved I feel about it, and letting him slip through my fingers… While saving people from shit like this is literally my job? That’s not something I’m emotionally prepared to recover from.
That can’t happen.
Tristan’s right. I focus on the book in my hand until I can actually read the numbers. Once I have a dosage, I double-check a few online databases to make sure nothing dramatic has changed since I bought this book during my undergrad, and then I make the infusion.
Meanwhile, Tristan continues to move around like this is all second nature. He’s turned my living room into a trauma bay, repurposing everything within reach into whatever he needs. He’s taking manual vitals at regular intervals without needing to check the clock, and the lack of our usual monitoring equipment hasn’t seemed to trip him up for a second.
I move fast in a crisis, but I still need a calculator sometimes. Like a normal human. Whatever he’s doing is insane.
“Tristan, who the fuck are you? I’ve known you for two years as a county paramedic, and let’s be real, this is not exactly the frontline of medicine out here. The last trauma patient you brought me got drunk and tried to fist-fight a deer. Then you walk in here like a professional fixer, ignoring my apartment full of mafia morons and triaging Tadhg in about fourteen seconds. Like… are you John fucking Wick? What is happening right now?”
“I think John Wick only killed people. He didn’t put them back together.”
Tristan’s tone is completely dry, as if my outburst doesn’t bother him, which annoys me even more. The short henchman that got in my face earlier—Lucky, I think Patrick called him—is growling at me in the background, probably about the ‘mafia moron’ comment, but I’m so far past caring.
“Tristan,” I snap.
“Alright, alright, don’t get your panties in a twist.”
I put my hand over my mouth, coughing the word ‘homophobia’ loudly into it while making pointed eye contact with him until he relents and holds up his hands.
“Sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I swear all I do is apologize now. I’ve been trying to be a better person, but why does personal growth have to be so exhausting?” He sighs and turns back to what he was doing. “I had a shitty childhood. I grew up around people a lot like these guys. My charming, narcissistic con artist of a mother is actually waiting outside in the car right now. I dealt with that for a long time and afterwards I was a combat medic for a decade. This isn’t my first time treating a gunshot wound with stolen supplies and a bunch of armed goons breathing down my neck.”
There’s a pause, and I’m not quite sure how to respond.
“That was a lot of information to take in,” I say at last.
“I’m trying to be more open with my friends, or whatever. We’re friends, right?”
Tristan peers at me, and I notice the barest glimpse of vulnerability in his normally bulletproof expression.
“Yeah.” I shrug.
“Okay. Then let’s save your brother. And you can fill me in on how you have a gangster brother I never knew about.”
“Stepbrother. Former stepbrother, really. We were really close when we were little.” I lower my voice, to make sure Patrick can’t overhear us, despite the fact that he’s now deep in conversation with the calm, buzz-cut guy. “Living with his dadwas rough. Tadhg did a lot for me. He always protected me. Then my mom took me and we ran, and that was it. I never thought I’d see him again. It’s weird.”
I stare at Tadhg, thinking about the past, until I notice Tristan watching me with a sharp gaze.
“Shut up,” I tell him, although I’m not sure why.
Forty-five minutes later,we’ve done everything we could think of using Tristan’s stolen goods. We’re pumping Tadhg full of antibiotics and fluids, we’re monitoring his vitals as well as we can, and we did a rough-and-ready flush, then debridement, of his wounds to remove the festering, necrotic tissue to get fresh blood flowing again.
Watching Tristan hacking away at an open wound very, very close to Tadhg’s abdominal cavity, armed with only some sterile gloves and a small scalpel, is not something I had on my bucket list.
“I hate this,” I say. I keep alternating between sitting on the floor next to him so I can feel his pulse and getting up to pace out my nervous energy.
“I know.”
“He needs so much more than this. He needs blood cultures. And rads or an ultrasound or something to make sure he’s not bleeding internally. Oh, and a fucking doctor.”
