I move, checking the airway first. I tilt the mannequin’s head, checking for obstruction. There’s simulated resistance, tongue fallback, maybe swelling.
“Airway compromised,” I say aloud, reaching for the bag-valve mask. “Preparing to assist ventilation.”
“Vitals are dropping,” Daniels adds, watching.
“Yeah, I can see that.”
I fit the mask and start squeezing the bag. The chest rises…barely. Not enough.
“Need a better seal,” I mutter, adjusting my grip and repositioning.
The monitor beeps faster, then slower, then erratic again.
“Pulse ox is tanking,” Daniels warns.
“I know.”
I force myself to slow down. Rushing gets people killed.
Reposition. Jaw thrust. Better angle. There. Chest rise improves slightly.
“Better,” I say, more to myself than him.
“Time’s still against you.”
Of course it is.
I glance at the abdomen wound. It’s dark and soaking through. Too much blood loss.
“Suspected internal hemorrhage,” I say. “We need rapid transport.”
“You don’t have transport yet,” Daniels replies evenly. “You’re alone on scene.”
“Then I stabilize what I can.”
I reach for the trauma shears, cutting through the hoodie to expose the wound. The plastic beneath is detailed enough to make my brain fill in the rest. There are torn flesh and pooling blood.
My hands don’t hesitate.
“Direct pressure,” I concur, grabbing gauze and pressing down hard.
The mannequin doesn’t react, obviously. No flinch or scream like a real patient would do.
That thought flashes unwanted through my head.
“BP dropping,” Daniels barks.
“Yeah, because he’s bleeding out.”
I apply more pressure, then reach for additional dressings, packing the wound.
“Talk me through it,” Daniels prompts.
“Severe abdominal trauma, likely internal bleed,” I say, forcing my voice steady. “Airway compromised but managedfor now. Oxygenation is improving slightly. Need fluids, rapid transport, and surgical intervention.”
“And what’s going to kill him first?”
The question is pretty fucking obvious. “Bleeding,” I answer. “If we don’t control it.”
