She wouldn’t hear from him again until he surfaced from his newest love. Drugs and sex defined Forest’s life. They filled his emptiness the same way she filled hers with extra shifts. She’d rather be busy than stare at empty walls.
“Dr. Summers,” a nurse cried out, “we have a multi vehicle accident coming in. Paramedics are coding the driver—pregnant, twenty-nine weeks. Male passenger—head injury, vital signs unstable. Two-year-old in a car seat—stable.”
Skye swept into the trauma bay as the paramedics wheeled in the pregnant driver while another straddled her performing chest compressions. Her gut dropped, as it always did, in that sliver of time before she ran a code. She didn’t rush, pausing instead for a moment to evaluate the scene.
Bob had taught her that trick when she had been a resident. “First order of business, Skye. Don’t do anything. Stand there. Think. Process. Only then do you act.”
She lived that mantra and saved lives.
The paramedic shook her head. The pregnant woman was losing her fight to live.
Another ambulance crew rolled in the woman’s husband, placing him in the adjoining trauma bay.
With her thoughts gathered, Skye pushed up her sleeves and barked out orders, “Call OB and Peds. We’re going to save that baby. Call the surgeons, STAT.” She rattled off the labs and X-rays she would need. “Hand me an ET tube.”
Her hands were steady as she placed the tube down the woman’s throat, securing her airway.
As the respiratory tech taped the tube in place, Skye glanced at the head nurse. “Where’s OB?”
“On their way.” Nancy Grier, a trauma veteran of thirty years, had a surgical tray prepped and ready.
“Stop compressions.” Her command was a measured, even tone, providing an island of calm within the chaos.
The flat line on the monitor told her everything she needed to know, but she went through the motions, feeling for a pulse.
There was none.
“Resume compressions.” There was still one life to save. “Let’s do this.”
“What about OB?” Nancy’s brows lifted—not in challenge, but as a question.
Skye shook her head. “We don’t have time.”
Nancy gave a jerk of her chin. “Right. I’ll help.”
Skye cut, and less than thirty seconds later, she pulled a limp premature baby out of the incision. The room cheered when the tiny human gave a feeble gasp.
“I need a bag and mask,” she called out.
“Peds team is here,” someone announced from the back of the room.
Skye tried to look over the press of bodies; it was the curse of being short. When the on-call pediatric resident pushed through the crowd, she placed the premature baby into his hands.
“Got it, Dr. Summers.” The pediatric resident clutched the baby to his chest.
Nancy pulled the young doctor out of the room toward a warmer.
Skye moved on to the father, hoping to save him. That baby had already lost its mother. No way was it going to lose its father, too. She knew all too well what happened to orphaned children. But a baby would have a better chance of staying out of foster care than a six-year-old girl. People wanted to adopt babies, not traumatized children.
Skye had the father stabilized by the time neurosurgery arrived, and she transferred care to their team. Then, she went to check on the least critical patient—the two-year-old. He was bruised and crying, which was a good sign. He was lucky. His car seat had minimized his injuries. She sent the child to the pediatric ward for observation.
Not every day started with a bang.
By the time she finished with the trauma, Spencer had been seen and discharged. She breathed a sigh of relief and went to find Bob. She needed to make sure he went home.
When she found him in the break room, he was rubbing his temples, fatigue pulling at the corners of his eyes.
“Looks like you’ve got the busy shift,” he said. “Mine was steady but quiet in comparison.”
