Page 110 of Sweet Heart

“Durand here. Activate disaster protocol. Page all additional staff.”

The words roll off my tongue like the practiced mantra that they are, but settle in my stomach like heavy stones. By the time I finish the call, my heart is slamming against my chest. It’s ironic that the reason I became a trauma surgeon in the first place is also the one thing I can never get used to.

“Hey, baby,” Mary’s voice sounds a little shaken behind me.

I whirl around to see her standing with two cups of coffee in her hands. Shit.

“Maria,” I whisper, just as Honda comes running.

“Catherine?”

His eyes dart to Mary, and he squints slightly, but refrains from commenting. I throw her an apologetic look, roll my shoulders back, and snap back into trauma mode.

“Mass casualty coming in. Expect burns, blunt trauma, amputations—”

His face goes white.

“What happened?”

“Plane crashed on the highway. You’re running secondary triage.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“And James?”

He turns to face me.

“I need you out there.”

His jaw twitches, and his eyes dart back to Mary before finding mine. I feel an additional rush of adrenaline flooding my system, spiking my nervous system. Then something in his face softens.

“You can count on me.”

He is off before I can respond. There is no need. I can’t tell yet if he has made his peace, but today, we will all work as a team.

“ETA?”

“Thirty seconds.”

“To the bay, move.”

I turn to face Mary. Her eyes are large as she takes in the madness around her. She has never seen this, seen me like this, and she is not going to.

“Baby, you need to go. Now.”

It is not a question but not exactly a command either. Too soft, too personal. I can’t bring myself to usher her out like I would any other civilian. She’s mine. But she doesn’t argue. She snaps out of it, nods, and walks away without another question. And somehow, she still manages to leave the promise behind. Later.

I rush to the entrance to join my team right as the doors swing open. An EMT is kneeling over the patient on the gurney, driving compressions into his chest with all his weight. The patient’s chest sinks under each press. Whitman snaps to attention.

“Male, sixty-five, crush injuries. Lost pulse five minutes ago. Patient is not responsive to epi.”

Her eyes dart to mine.

“Black.”

I nod.

The next victim already rolls in before we can process it.