“Jesus. Risky.” Administering clobazam and sodium valproate together can be very effective, but you also need to know exactly what you’re fucking doing, otherwise you’ll end up killing the patient. The EMTs are well trained, though. There’s no way they would ever administer a drug if it weren’t necessary. “Have pediatrics paged. Let them know they have a regular on the way in. Is Dr. Massey here today?”
Gitte frowns. She scans the tablet she’s holding in her hands, presumably searching through the on-call roster to see who’s working this morning. She shakes her head. “He’s not meant to be here,” she says. “I swear I saw him in the ICU an hour ago, though.”
She could have done. Oliver Massey’s brother was recently brought into the hospital with serious internal injuries; Alex, a fire fighter, had been crushed while trying to help drag an unconscious woman from a car wreck. He’s been recovering well from his extensive surgeries, but not well enough to make it out of intensive care. Not yet, anyway.
“See if you can find him. Tell him I’d love a consult if he has the time.”
Gitte nods, slips her tablet into the pocket of her scrubs and hurries back into the hospital building. I’m left alone, fingers twitching, heart bouncing around in my chest, adrenalin zipping through me, making my stomach pitch and yaw. It’s early but Seattle is already wide-awake and charging. In the midst of the city, St Peter’s Hospital is at the heart of things. Located at the convergence of three different neighborhoods, you can’t see or hear the docks from here but you can smell them, the sharp bite of salt in the air, and you can feel somehow that you’re close to the water.
Somewhere on the other side of the city, Zeth Mayfair is thrashing the living shit out of a heavy bag, his hands hopefully wrapped up tight as he works out his early morning frustrations. For a second I lose myself, thinking about how the muscles in his back flex and pop as he hits and swings at that bag. The way he moves is animalistic, raw and dangerous. It would be all too easy to lose a full day watching him work out and train in his fighting gym. All too easy indeed. There are people here that need me, though. People here that need saving.
That thought brings me rushing back into the present. I love Zeth, more than I ever knew was possible, but I figured out a long time ago that I can’t allow him to linger in my thoughts here in this place. It’s not safe.
I try not to think about the sound of his fists thudding forcefully into the heavy bag. I try not to think about the intoxicating smell of his sweat as he trains. I try not to let myself melt as I remember how hard fighting makes him.
I try not to think at all.
I wait another two minutes before I hear the approaching ambulance. If six-year-old Millie Reeves isn’t seizing anymore, there’s no real need for the wailing Doppler shift of the sirens, or the frantic flash of the red and blue lights on top of the vehicle that I see speeding into the St Peter’s parking lot, but sometimes the EMTs will leave them blaring in order to get their patient to us in good time.
I barely register who’s driving the ambo or who’s climbing out of the back with the patient. All I care about is the child, and what I can do to fix her. I’m faced with the little girl on the gurney. She’s so, so small. Smaller than any six-year-old should be. It would be less surprising if her chart showed she was four years old instead, but no, the paper I’m handed on a clipboard confirms her age as six. I check her vitals, all of which are weak and stressed but within acceptable ranges, and then I take hold of her hand, squeezing it in my own. That’s when I look up. That’s when I see the tall guy hovering beside the gurney, anxiety vibrating off him in spiky waves.
He doesn’t say anything. He looks me dead in the eye and challenges me to say something. I get the impression he’ll implode if I utter words he doesn’t like, however, and that makes me uneasy. I thank the EMTs, noting vaguely that the ambulance was dispatched from Alex Massey’s firehouse, and then I turn to the young guy in front of me. “You’re Millie’s father?” I don’t wait for him to respond. I begin pushing the gurney inside. I need to get Millie up to pediatrics and hooked up to an IV as soon as possible.
“No. Brother. I’m her legal guardian, though. Our parents are dead. I’ve taken care of Millie since she was born, pretty much.”
“I see.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You don’t see. Unless you’ve been caring for a seriously ill little girl for the past six years, how can you?” His attitude is really shitty—shitty enough that I stop pushing the gurney and spin on him. I’m not pissed at him. He’s too young to be dealing with this responsibility. He’s barely an adult himself, but he’s clearly not thinking straight right now.
“Look around you, Mr. Reeves. Look at where you are. No, I haven’t been caring for one sick little girl for the past six years. I’ve been caring for twenty of them. Thirty. I’ve been caring for seriously ill one-day-olds right along side seriously ill eighty-year-olds. For a decade.”
He has the humility to look away. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m just…”
“Stressed out and scared?”