Because the second stretcher was already coming through.
And some part of me knew before anyone said his name.
I knew from the shape of his body beneath the blood. From the way his dark hair stuck to his forehead. From the ink along his arm. From the cut of his jaw even under oxygen tubing and shadow.
I knew.
I refused to know.
“Second male,” the paramedic said, voice rising over the sudden frenzy. “No ID at scene, wallet found in jacket pocket en route.”
He handed it off to one of the nurses, who flipped it open fast.
I watched her face.
I watched the moment she read it.
“Dylan Degan,” she said.
The world went silent.
Not really.
The trauma bay was loud. Violently loud. Orders, wheels, monitors, shoes squeaking against polished floor.
But inside me, everything went soundless.
Dylan.
His name was not supposed to exist in my ER.
Not like this.
Not bleeding out on a stretcher with gauze packed against his abdomen and someone’s hands buried in pressure over a wound that kept trying to take him from the world.
“GSW abdomen,” the paramedic continued. “Possible exit wound, possible internal bleed. Pressure tanked twice en route. Two large-bore IVs. Fluids running. Lost consciousness twice. GCS fluctuating. He’s circling the drain.”
Circling the drain.
I hated that phrase.
I hated it in every patient.
I hated it with Dylan’s face under it.
His eyes fluttered.
I moved without deciding to.
“Nurse Rourke,” someone barked.
I snapped back.
“I’m here.”
That was the lie nurses told first.
I’m here.
