“This, I’m afraid, will take a while,” she offered. “The patient, Randi Caleb, was involved in a head-on collision impacting the left driver’s side fully. The driver was DOA at the scene. She has four fractured ribs and concussion and a possible severed radial and ulnar artery of the right hand. Also, we might be dealing with acuteischemia from signs of profuse spurting, severe paleness, and coldness of her hand. The patient also can’t move her fingers.”
He nods knowingly.
“Is she hemodynamically stable?”
Millie nods.
“Dr. Reagan is on Trauma. He did his best, knowing you would need to move right away. And save her arm. She’s on her second bag of plasma though.”
He shook his head. Not good. Losing too much blood.
She confirmed without him asking.
“OR Two is being prepped for you as we speak. Mack is handling the anesthesia and he’s there waiting on you.”
His voice was calm. Controlled. Absolute as he gazed at each surgical staff member individually.
“Let’s role and save Miss Caleb’s hand, shall we.”
His team followed him. His voice was the kind people trusted without question.
Around him, the controlled chaos of the Mayo Clinic trauma unit shifted instantly to precision. Nurses moved. Instruments were sterilized and displayed ready for use. Monitors were prepped. Everything aligned.
Because when Brew Clay took a case, there was no wasted motion.
He scrubbed in with practiced efficiency, water rushing over steady hands that had rebuilt what others had written off as lost.
Hands that had restored movement. Given people back their lives. Hands that did not fail.
“Dr. Clay,” his resident said, stepping beside him. “Mechanismof injury, our patient was trapped for over an hour.”
Brew’s jaw tightened slightly.
Not enough to show.
Just enough to feel.
“Dominant hand?” Brew asked.
“Yes.”
A beat.
That mattered.
More than most people understood the weight he was carrying.
The doors burst open.
“Trauma incoming!”
The gurney rolled in fast …too fast for anything but urgency.
Brew turned.
And everything narrowed.
Blood.
