“Ro,” Ethan starts, his voice tightening just slightly, “if this drops?—”
A sound cuts him off. Metal against metal. A sudden impact that rattles through the line. Then a sharp grunt.
The phone jolts. I hear fabric scrape. Breath rushes past the mic. Someone exhales, not in pain, but in exertion.
“Ethan,” I say, my voice breaking through my control despite my effort. “Ethan, answer me.”
Nothing.
Movement now. Feet on pavement. Another voice closer than before.
My stomach drops. I say his name again, slower this time, forcing control into each syllable.
“Ethan.”
No answer. The line stays open, filled only with breathing that isn’t his. Then the call ends. I stand frozen for half a second too long. Just long enough for the truth to lock into place.
This wasn’t confusion. This wasn’t a coincidence. This was an interception.
Then I move.
I turn on my heel and head back toward the nurses’ station, my stride brisk and purposeful. My badge swings against my scrub top with each step, the familiar pull a point of focus even as my thoughts race ahead.
“Charge,” I call, already lifting my voice. “I need confirmation on an inbound EMS unit. Possible assault.”
The charge nurse looks up immediately, reading my expression without question. “Which unit?”
“Unit Twelve,” I reply. “They were rerouted to Ridley. Something’s wrong.”
Her fingers fly across the keyboard. “Stand by.”
The smell of antiseptic sharpens my focus as I secure my hair. My breathing slows even as my thoughts fracture.
This is what I do. This is where I hold the line.
“Dr. Hale,” the charge nurse calls, her voice tight now. “Dispatch confirms Unit Twelve is inbound. Assault reported. Two injured.”
My jaw tightens.
“Details?” I ask.
She shakes her head once. “That’s all they’re giving.”
I glance at the clock again, tracking seconds as they pass. Each tick lands with absolute certainty. I picture the space without meaning to. The distance between the ambulance doors and the patient. Where Ethan would stand. How close someone would need to be to interrupt him mid-sentence.
Too close.
Sirens cut through the air outside, rising fast. The sound threads through the hospital walls, close enough now to sharpen every sense.
As the trauma bay moves into readiness, time starts behaving differently. It doesn’t rush the way it does when chaos hits all at once. There’s no surge yet, no gurneys to pull focus. Just the hum of equipment, voices kept low at the nurses’ station, and a clock that moves too slowly to justify how fast my pulse is climbing.
I alert the charge nurse again, this time more firmly. She responds without question, assigning staff, clearing space, and preparing blood. No one asks me to explain myself. They don’t need to. They can see it on my face.
I scrub in at the sink, letting routine take over. Soap, water, brush, the sequence is familiar enough that my hands don’t hesitate. The sink throws my reflection back at me, pale andintent, my eyes too bright beneath the harsh lights. My movements stay methodical despite the faint tremor in my fingers, which I rein in through habit rather than effort. I match my breathing to the rhythm of water hitting porcelain until control returns where I need it.
This is not the first time I’ve waited for someone I love to come through those doors. The thought is unwelcome and intrusive, and I shut it down before it can fully form.
I pull on fresh gloves. The latex snaps softly against my wrists.
