In an instant, we’re all on our feet, a collective surge of energy and urgency.
“He’s out of surgery,” she says, and the room seems to exhale all at once, a rush of relief, of hope flickering back to life. “He’s stable for now, but his injuries are severe. He’s being moved to the ICU. The doctor will be out shortly to explain more.”
Lucy grabs my arm, the pressure in her grip desperate and shaky. Whether it’s from hope or dread, I can’t tell. I want to tell her everything will be fine, but I can’t find the words.
“Can we see him?” Callan’s mom, Sam, asks.
The nurse nods, her face remaining neutral. “You’ll need to wait until he’s settled in the ICU, but after that, yes. Only twovisitors at a time, though,” she adds. “The doctor will let you know.”
“Thank you,” Knox says quietly. He’s holding it together, but I can see the effort it’s taking.
We sink back into our seats. Lucy is crying, her mom’s arm wrapped around her shoulders, offering what little comfort she can. Knox resumes his pacing, each step a reflection of the unease he’s carrying, while Callan’s stepdad, Paul, stares blankly at the floor, his face set in a mask of shock.
I lean into Juliette. I don’t know how I’d manage without her. “He’s going to be okay,” she murmurs, but I catch the subtle tremor in her voice.
Finally, the doctor steps into the room. He introduces himself, but the name doesn’t stick. It’s just background noise, insignificant compared to the information we’re about to hear.
“Mr. MacKenzie’s condition is critical but stable,” he begins, his tone calm and clinical. “He sustained significant injuries, including several broken ribs, one of which caused a punctured lung. He has a severe concussion, and there was internal bleeding that we’ve managed to control. His right leg was also badly fractured and required surgical intervention.”
Each injury feels like a blow, each word a sharp jab that knocks the breath from my lungs. My stomach churns, and I fight the urge to collapse.
He’s hurt. He’s broken.
The doctor’s gaze softens slightly, but his words don’t waver. “The next few days are going to be critical. We’ll be monitoring him closely for complications, especially with the head injury and his lung. He’s sedated and on a ventilator to help him breathe. The ventilator is temporary.”
I swear the ground falls away beneath me as I dig my nails into my palms to keep upright.
“Can we see him now?” someone asks, but the voice seemsso distant, like it’s coming from a far-off place. I don’t even know who spoke.
The doctor nods, but there’s hesitation in his eyes. “He’s unconscious, and he won’t look like himself. I want to prepare you for that. There’s swelling, bruising, and he’s hooked up to multiple monitors. It can be difficult to see a loved one in that condition.”
Difficult doesn’t even begin to cover it. There’s a knot forming in my stomach, but I don’t care about the bruising, the swelling, or the monitors. I need to see him. I need to see with my own eyes that he’s alive, that he’s here, and that he’s stillhim.
Knox’s hand on my shoulder startles me. “You should go first, with Mum,” he says softly. “He’d want to see you.”
I glance around the room, taking in the weary, worried faces of his family. My eyes land on Lucy and Paul, who offer quiet, encouraging nods.
“Are you sure?”
There’s no hesitation, no argument. Just understanding. “Of course,” Paul says. “You go with Sam.”
A nurse leads us down the hallway, the sterile smell of antiseptic filling my lungs with each step. My heart pounds, each beat echoing in my ears, a rhythm of anticipation and dread.
We stop outside one of the rooms with the door slightly ajar. I take a breath, trying to force my body into some semblance of calm. The nurse turns to face us, her expression unreadable. Her eyes soften when they meet mine.
“It might be shocking at first.”
I nod, my throat tight. My body is on edge, a coil of tension threatening to snap with the next breath. I steel myself for what I know is coming.
The nurse pushes the door open, and as soon as it swings back, Sam gasps beside me. The sight hits me like a physicalblow, the force of it stealing the air from my lungs. Callan, my strong, vibrant Callan, lies utterly still. His body is unrecognizable beneath the bruises and swelling, a shadow of the man I know. The stark white hospital sheets contrast painfully with the vividness of his injuries, the raw colors that seem to scream of tragedy and instability.
Tubes and wires snake around him, connecting him to the monitors, their rhythmic pulses both a comfort and a curse. The melodic beeps are reminders that he’s alive, that his heart is still beating, but the ventilator humming in the background is unnatural, too mechanical, too foreign.
I reach for the doorframe, gripping it so tightly my fingers burn. I use it as an anchor to keep myself standing. I’ve seen this scene before. Monitors, tubing, machines doing the work a body can’t. It’s part of my world. It’s my job. I’ve stood at bedsides like this more times than I can count.
But this is Callan.
His chest rises and falls with the help, and it’s not the man I remember. Not the man whose smile could light up a room. Not the man who laughed with me, who held me, who made me feel safe.
