I could almost hear the curses from here.
Carter braced harder against the dash. “He’s going to crash that thing,” he muttered, half in awe, half in terror.
“Not today,” I said, and tried to make it a promise.
We hit the hospital lot in a synchronized power-slide, both trucks veering into the loading zone, tires squealing. Before the engines were fully off, Rawley was out of the cab, sprinting around to yank open the passenger door.
Jojo half-fell into his arms, doubled over and clutching at Rawley’s shirt with both hands. The screams had subsided toragged, panicked breathing, and I could see in his face the pain had gone from theory to emergency.
Carter and I slammed out of the Dodge, catching up just as Rawley—cradling Jojo like a football—barreled into the waiting arms of the ER staff. The lead nurse, a squat woman in navy blue scrubs, clocked the scene in an instant and snapped into motion.
“Triage, bay one!” she barked. “Someone get me vitals and a stretcher—now!”
The hospital doors whooshed open and we trailed the chaos inside. It was blindingly bright, the kind of sterile white that made every other sense feel muted.
I kept Carter at my side, one hand on the small of his back to keep him from drifting into the action. He didn’t fight me, just walked stiff-legged, eyes never leaving Jojo as he disappeared down the hall.
Rawley tried to follow but was blocked by the nurse, who planted a palm in his chest and said, “Wait here, sir. They’ll let you in as soon as it’s safe.” He looked ready to rip her arm off, but instead just collapsed onto a bench, head in his hands.
The sudden quiet was deafening. We stood in the atrium, the only noise the distant echo of feet and the nervous click of Carter’s nails against the plastic of the hospital bag. I sat beside Rawley, hands braced on my knees.
Carter paced, once, twice, then finally slumped onto the seat beside me. He exhaled in a shaky rush, wiped his face, and looked at me, really looked.
“I’ve never seen him like that,” Carter said, nodding at his brother. “He’s always the calm one. The—” He broke off, shaking his head.
I finished the sentence for him. “The guy who never fucks up.”
He smiled, but it was bleak. “Yeah. That guy.”
I looked at Rawley, hunched and shaking, and realized I’d been wrong: war and trauma don’t prepare you for everything. Some things, like seeing your whole world in pain, stripped you raw no matter how tough you thought you were.
“Rawley,” I said, low.
He didn’t answer.
I let it go. There was nothing I could say that would fix this.
So I watched the door. Every nurse, every orderly, every passing med tech—I tracked them, looking for some clue that things weren’t going sideways. I kept time by the seconds, counted the beats in my own chest, felt the adrenaline cool to something sharp and brittle.
A nurse finally appeared, clipboard in hand. “Family for Joseph Stinson?”
We were all on our feet at once.
She led us down the hall, past rooms full of old men, sleeping children, and the endless beeping of monitors. We stopped at a closed door. The nurse held up a hand.
“Doctor’s with them now. It’s going fast—he’s lucky to have so many people who care.” She gave Carter a little smile. “He’ll be okay. I promise.”
Rawley nodded, and his hand found Carter’s shoulder, squeezing just enough to leave a mark. For a minute, the three of us stood like that, holding the line against whatever came next.
I looked at Carter, at his belly, at the bright wetness in his eyes. “You ready for this?” I asked.
He didn’t hesitate. “Yeah,” he said. “Are you?”
I grinned, but it didn’t feel like a lie. “Born ready.”
We waited, hearts hammering, as behind the door the world changed shape forever.
Hospitals were always the same: a forced hush over raw panic, everything painted over with antiseptic and the faint hum of air-conditioning. It was a liminal space, one foot in the worldof the living, one foot in the waiting room where time stopped and nothing mattered but the next update from behind a closed door.
