I step back slowly, peeling off my gloves and tossing them into the bin.
“Time?” I ask.
“Eight minutes to stabilize.”
I nod once. Not great but not terrible.
“Room for improvement,” he adds.
“Always is.”
He studies me for a second longer than usual. “Walk with me.”
I grab a towel, wiping my hands as I follow him out of the training bay and into the hallway. It’s quieter here, the hum of fluorescent lights replacing the simulated chaos.
“You handled the medical side well,” he says. “Fast, efficient, and mostly correct decisions.”
“Mostly,” I repeat.
“You hesitated.”
I frown. “Where?”
“Airway adjustment at the two-minute mark.”
I think back. Replay it. “…Yeah,” I admit. “I second-guessed the seal.”
“Second-guessing costs time.”
“I fixed it.”
“You did,” he agrees. “But in the field, that delay matters.”
I exhale slowly. He’s not wrong. We stop near the lockers.
“And there’s something else,” he adds.
“That tone usually means I’m not going to like it.”
“You’re getting better at the medicine,” he says. “But you’re still thinking like the scene is controlled.”
I blink. “It wasn’t?”
“In here? Yes,” he edges. “Out there? No.”
I cross my arms. “I did a scene safety check.”
“You did,” he acknowledges. “Once.”
“That’s standard.”
“It’s minimum,” he corrects.
Ouch.
“In real situations,” he continues, “especially the kind you’ve been brushing up against lately… scene safety isn’t a one-and-done.”
A chill slides down my spine, subtle but sharp. “Meaning?”
