“He’ll need hemodialysis till then. But we’ll manage that in New York. High-frequency, short sessions.”
Roe folded his arms. “Assuming he doesn’t rip it out the second he wakes.”
“He won’t,” Hunt said. “Not if Shannon’s there.”
“I’ll start coordinating the transfer,” Roe said at last. “You write your orders for the line and catheter. I’ll write up the justification.”
Both men looked tired. And both looked resolved.
There wasa moment between doses of morphine and the pressure of oxygen when the pain didn’t matter. Dante lived there now.
His body wasn’t his. It moved in slow, uncooperative pieces. Tubes ran out of his neck, wrist, abdomen, and a catheter collected a few minuscule drops of brown sludge. A blood pressure cuff squeezed him like it was angry. And a machine he could hear but not see filtered his blood in place of the kidneys that refused to wake up.
He didn’t remember when the real pain stopped, only that the waiting replaced it. And the dread. He heard them before he saw them—two sets of footsteps, firm and unhurried.
Dr. Hunt Montgomery was tall, slow-speaking, the kind of physician you didn’t ask for good news from. And Dr. Alistair Roe was quiet and thoughtful, and watched your face as much as your chart.
Roe spoke first. “You with us, Dante?”
Dante nodded. His voice still caught when he tried to speak, and his throat burned from ripping out the tube, so he didn’t.
Montgomery’s tone was quiet, level. “We’ve given your kidneys time. We’ve been monitoring volume, markers. There’s… been no improvement.” There was no anger in his voice, just the facts.
Dante stared at the ceiling. Cold crept up his spine.
Roe stepped closer. “We’re going to transfer you to Chase Medical New York. The transplant programs are stronger than what we can offer here. You’ll be under Jamie O’Reilly’s care.”
Dante didn’t respond.
Montgomery added, “Before that, we’ll need to place a peritoneal catheter in your belly. That’ll give you the option for dialysis you can control.”
“And we’d like to biopsy the kidneys,” Roe added. “Confirm what damage we’re dealing with. Between the sepsis, the electric trauma, and circulation loss, well?—”
Montgomery finished, “—it’s a miracle you’re alive, Dante.”
Dante stared straight ahead.
Roe put a hand lightly on the rail. “We’ll get you there safely.”
Then they were gone. He didn’t hear the door close. Didn’t realize how tense he’d gone until Shannon’s voice broke through.
“Dante.” She sat where she always did. She looked tired, but not fragile. She hadn’t left his side, and fatigue lived under her skin like a shadow.
He turned toward her slowly. “You heard?” His voice rasped, but it worked.
Shannon nodded. “I didn’t want them to tell you alone.”
He let the words linger between them.Not healing. Transfer. Dialysis. Biopsy.
He knew what that meant. Long-term failure. Not battlefield damage. Not bruised organs that bounced back with fluids and rest. This wasn’t something he could out-sweat.
Dante stared at the white ceiling. “You ever have that feeling where you’re waking up in a body you didn’t earn?”
She didn’t answer.
“I used to be able to run eight miles before breakfast. Fast-rope in the dark. Carry wounded guys across rooftops. And now I can’t even piss.”
Shannon reached over and took his hand. “You’re still here.”
