"David." Blood bubbles at the corner of his mouth when he speaks. Lung involvement. Fuck.
"Okay, David. I'm Frankie. Stay with me." I take his hand because it's the only thing I can offer him right now. His grip is weak, his palm already cold and clammy.
Dr. Patel is barking orders. Type and cross for multiple units. Trauma panel. Page surgery stat. But I can see him looking at the monitor, watching David's pressure drop, and I know what he's thinking. This kid isn't going to make it to the OR.
I know this dance. The first time was years ago, the night after Vincent's funeral, when I showed up for my shift because staying home meant thinking about the fact that my brother was in the ground instead of annoying me with texts about whatever girl he was dating. I threw myself into the work because it was the only thing that made the screaming in my head stop.
If I couldn't save Vincent, maybe I could save someone else's brother.
"Stay with me, David." I squeeze his hand, but his grip is loosening. His eyes are starting to go unfocused.
Dr. Patel cuts away the rest of the gauze, and I see the entry wound. A small, neat hole just above his hip. But the bleeding isn't stopping, which means the bullet tore through something major—probably an artery. His abdomen is distended, rigid. Internal bleeding, liters of it, filling his belly faster than we can replace it.
"Pressure's dropping," someone calls out.
"Push more units," Dr. Patel says, but his voice has that flat quality that means he knows it won't matter.
David's hand goes slack in mine.
"David, look at me." I lean closer, trying to keep him focused on my face, on my voice, on anything except the fact that he's dying. "Keep your eyes open."
But the light is already fading. I recognize the moment—that split second when the body just gives up. When blood pressure drops too low for too long and the brain starts shutting down, pulling back from the extremities, trying desperately to keep the vital organs alive for just a few more heartbeats.
It never works.
Dr. Patel tries anyway. We all do—compressions that crack ribs, rounds of epinephrine, paddles that make David's body jerk like a puppet with cut strings. But his heart doesn't start again, and finally Dr. Patel steps back and looks at the clock.
"Time of death, nine forty-seven."
I strip off my gloves and throw them in the biohazard bin. My arms are covered in David's blood, dried and flaking at the edges, still wet and red in the creases of my elbows. I scrub them in the sink, watching the water run pink, then crimson, then pink again. The blood swirls down the drain, and I scrub harder, trying to get it out of the lines in my skin.
I can still feel his hand going limp in mine.
Dr. Patel goes to tell David's mother. I hear her scream from several rooms away—that animal sound of grief that cuts straight through everything. It's the same sound I imagine my mother made when the cops showed up at our door to tell her Vincent was dead—gang crossfire during a bodega robbery. He'd stopped to buy a lottery ticket, and a bullet found him before he even knew to be scared.
I bag David's personal effects. A gold chain with a saint's medal that didn't protect him. A cell phone with a cracked screen. Some cash and a receipt from a bodega on Amsterdam Avenue. I seal it in a plastic bag and label it, and my hands don't shake because I've done this enough times for them to be steady.
By the time I make it to the break room, my head is pounding and my hands smell like gore no matter how many times I washed them. The fluorescent lights are too bright. Someone leftthe TV on, a show with hosts who laugh too loud about nothing. I pour myself coffee that tastes like burnt rubber and sit down before my legs give out.
"Rough shift?" Jen slides into the chair across from me.
"Twenty-two years old." I don't look up from my coffee.
"Shit." She's quiet for a moment, then leans forward. "Talk to me. What's going on with you?"
I almost laugh. "You mean besides watching a kid bleed out on my table?"
"I mean in general." Her voice drops. "You've been different lately. Jumpy. Checking exits. Looking over your shoulder like someone's about to grab you."
My stomach tightens. "I'm fine."
"Frankie." She gives me that look, the one that says she's not buying my bullshit. "I've worked with you long enough to know the difference between tired and scared. Which one is it?"
I want to lie. Want to tell her I'm just exhausted, just stressed, just imagining things. But Jen's been doing this long enough to spot a lie, and I'm too tired to sell one.
"I think someone's been following me."
Her expression doesn't change, but something sharpens in her eyes. "How long?"
