Samar followed his gaze. The BP was through the roof.
“You said he ran with this in his side?”
“He did.”
“Brave chap.”
Samar did not have the face to look at Adil. “He is a fighter.”
“We will give it an hour. Stabilise this,” the doctor pointed at the knife’s hilt. Samar began to step forward when he realised that the doctor had called for the nurse. Samar sat down on a stool. His eyes rose, and there stood Atharva, on the other side of the glass, eyes on Adil. Atharva’s gaze came to him and Samar took his eyes away.
Everything went on in front of him and he sat there quiet, helpless, listening to the drips, the beeps, the puff of the BP machine.
“Doctor!”
His eyes shot up and found the ECG monitor crashing. The line dipped and the beep deafened him.
Go, Samar, go. Get them.
Not without you.
She is gone.
Where is this hero marching to?
Samar saw the flap of white in his peripheral vision move. The doctor had stepped back, adrenaline unused in his hand, eyes on the clock.
“No!”
“Time of death…”
“Stop!” He pounced up, pushing through the medics around Adil and snatching the syringe.
“Sir, he is gone!” Somebody held his shoulder, pulling it back. “You cannot do this!” “Move him out!” “Get out!”
Samar tore through it all and stabbed the syringe right into Adil’s chest. He grabbed the defibrillator paddles and opened them for the gel. The nurse did not provide it. She shook her head, shivering. Hands held him back but he elbowed them away — “I’m an ex-trauma surgeon of the Indian Special Frontier Forces, and I am not going to let this man go.”
Gel was thrown over the paddles and Samar rubbed them together.
“Three. Two. One. Clear.”
Jolt.
Pause.
ECG was still flat.
“Three. Two. One. Clear.”
Jolt.
Still flat.
“Stop, Doctor, there is no irregular rhythm detected.”
Come on, asshole, have a heartbeat. Have something. Have a rhythm that I can catch. Come on.
“Three, two, one, clear.”
