“For now,” the CO said, already accepting the metal cuffs from another officer. “He wakes up swinging, that’s a problem.”
“It blocks our ability to assess his extremities for vascular compromise. If there’s a circulation issue in his wrists and we can’t see it because of the cuffs?—”
“Harper.” Dr. Mercer’s voice was a warning. “Gauze.”
I handed it over. Watched her press it to the gash above his brow. Watched blood immediately bloom through the white fabric, crimson spreading like watercolor.
And then I watched the CO shackle Knox’s wrists to the rails of the exam table.
Click. Click.
His ankles came next.
Click. Click.
Four points of restraint. Like he was an animal. Like he was something that needed to be caged, even when he was too broken to open his eyes.
Something cracked inside my heart.
“Did anyone see a shiv?” Dr. Mercer asked.
“Didn’t see one. Fists and boots. One of them got him in the head pretty good. He went down and didn’t get up.”
Dr. Mercer’s jaw tightened. “We need imaging. Head and chest. Call EMTs for transport.”
“On it.” A CO disappeared through the door.
I forced myself to move. To function. Scissors in hand, I cut through his prison orange, peeling the blood-soaked fabric away from his body. The shirt came off in pieces, revealing the full extent of the damage.
His torso was a canvas of violence.
Fresh purple and red bloomed everywhere. His ribs on the left side were already swelling, the skin there so dark, it lookedalmost black. Boot prints. Someone had kicked him while he was down. Repeatedly.
“Possible rib fractures,” I heard myself say. The clinical voice. The professional mask. “Left side, ribs eight through ten. We need to rule out pneumothorax.”
Dr. Mercer nodded, pressing her stethoscope to his chest. “Breath sounds diminished on the left but present. No obvious tracheal deviation. Let’s get him stabilized for transport.”
I reached for the blood pressure cuff, wrapping it around his bicep with hands that refused to stop trembling. The Velcro was loud in the quiet room. His skin was warm beneath my fingers. Alive. He was still alive.
For now.
The cuff inflated. I watched the numbers climb, then fall.
Along with my heart.
“BP ninety over sixty,” I reported. “Tachy at one twelve.”
Low blood pressure. Elevated heart rate. His body was in shock, struggling to compensate for trauma it couldn’t understand.
“Get a line in him,” Dr. Mercer ordered. “Normal saline, wide open.”
I gathered the supplies on autopilot. Tourniquet. Alcohol swab. Eighteen-gauge needle. My hands knew this dance. They’d performed it thousands of times.
But they’d never performed it on him.
I tied the tourniquet around his arm, and watched his veins rise beneath tattooed skin. Good vasculature. Easy access. I could do this in my sleep.
So, why did my vision keep blurring?
