Just motion.
Fast. Precise. Brutal.
“Trauma One and Two,” charge called. “Clear them now.”
“OR?” someone shouted.
“Already paging.”
“Blood bank.”
“Massive transfusion protocol ready if needed.”
“Respiratory.”
“On the way.”
“Crash cart.”
“I’ve got it.”
That was me.
My body moved before my mind had finished processing the words.
Two GSWs.
Seven minutes.
Critical.
I pulled the crash cart into position, checked drawers, checked suction, checked oxygen, checked everything because checking was prayer when prayer did not have time to kneel. Lily moved beside me without needing direction. We had worked together long enough that our rhythm had become its own language.
She cleared lines.
I prepped trauma shears.
She pulled warm blankets.
I set up pressure bags.
Someone stripped beds.
Someone else called imaging.
The trauma surgeon was paged again.
OR called down that they were clearing a room.
Another radio update came through.
“Three minutes.”
The sliding doors opened and closed.
People in the waiting area stared as if staring could tell them whether the disaster coming belonged to them.
I tightened the cuff on my glove.
