“Good.”
The monitor dips again. Heart rate spikes, then stutters.
“Arrhythmia,” I declare. “Possible hypovolemic shock.”
“Possible?” Daniels presses.
“Likely,” I correct, irritation slipping through. “Given the blood loss.”
He nods once.
I reach for the IV kit, hands moving automatically, dealing with the tourniquet, vein, and insertion.
“Line’s in,” I say. “Fluids running.”
“Not enough,” Daniels deadpans.
“It’s what I’ve got.”
“Exactly.”
I grit my teeth, adjusting flow rate.
The scenario keeps stacking against me, every gain being offset by another drop in vitals. It’s frustrating, a controlled, simulated frustration, but it still crawls under my skin.
“Airway’s worsening,” Daniels adds.
I glance up. Chest rise is weaker again.
“Damn it.” I reposition, check the seal, and adjust again.
“Think,” he enunciates.
“I am thinking.”
“Think better.”
I shoot him a look but refocus. Compromised airway. Declining oxygen. Bleeding out. Everything at once. Just like real life.
I switch techniques, improving the seal, increasing efficiency.
“There,” I say under my breath.
The monitor stabilizes slightly. Not good. Not safe. But not crashing.
“Better,” Daniels admits.
I keep going, putting pressure on the wound, checking fluids, then airway management, and doing a constant reassessment.
Seconds stretch and minutes blur.
Eventually, the monitor levels into something resembling stability. It’s not healthy, but it’s survivable.
Daniels taps the tablet. Everything stops. Silence floods the room.
I don’t move right away, hands still in place like the patient might start crashing again if I let go.
“You’re clear,” he accepts.
