Page 1 of Duty Devoted
Chapter 1
Lauren Valentino
The momentI stepped into the clinic, I knew today was going to cause problems. The air felt heavier, charged with a strange electricity that made the hair on my arms stand up. Six months in Corazón had taught me to trust those instincts.
“Dr. Valentino!” Sure enough, Mariela, our local nurse, rushed toward me, her dark eyes wide with worry a few minutes later. “There’s been an accident at the mining site. Four men injured. They’re bringing them now.”
And there it was.
I nodded, already moving toward the treatment area. “Prep the rooms. Get the emergency kits ready.”
Our clinic—a converted schoolhouse with peeling blue paint and windows that never quite closed against the jungle humidity—wasn’t equipped for major trauma. We made do with limited supplies, questionable electricity, and an undying belief that something was better than nothing.
The familiar rhythm of preparation calmed me. I washed my hands methodically, counting under my breath as I had since med school. Twenty seconds. No shortcuts. Not here, where infection could kill as easily as trauma.
“Do we know anything?” I asked as Sophia Yang, one of my three fellow physicians, joined me at the sink.
“Explosion. Mining equipment malfunction,” she said, her voice steady despite the tension in her shoulders. “Local radio says one critical, three walking wounded. Williams and Martinez are out in town with other patients, so it’s just you and me.”
Before I could respond, the doors banged open. Two men carried a third between them, his face ashen beneath the dirt and blood. Behind them, another limped in, clutching his arm to his chest.
“Critical first.” I directed them, pointing to the main exam room. “Dr. Yang, can you assess the others?”
Sophia nodded, already moving toward the wounded who’d been able to walk themselves in.
The injured miner couldn’t have been more than twenty. His breathing came in short, pained gasps, and blood soaked through his shirt from a wound in his abdomen.
“I’m Dr. Valentino,” I said in Spanish as I cut away his shirt. “Can you tell me your name?”
“Miguel,” he whispered. “Am I going to die?”
The question hung between us as I assessed his injury. Penetrating trauma to the abdomen. Significant blood loss. Likely internal bleeding.
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” I replied, injecting confidence into my voice that I didn’t entirely feel. “Mariela, I need an IV started. Lactated Ringer’s, wide open.”
As Mariela worked on the IV, I continued my assessment. The object—part of the mining equipment—had penetrated his upper abdomen, just below the rib cage. The bleeding was steadybut not arterial. What concerned me more was what damage lay beneath, invisible to the eye.
“Miguel, I need to examine your abdomen. This will hurt, but it’s necessary.”
He nodded, his eyes never leaving mine. I pressed gently around the wound, noting his grimace when I reached the upper right quadrant. His abdomen was rigid—a sign of peritonitis or internal bleeding.
“We need to get him stable for transport,” I told Mariela. “The hospital in Ciudad del Este?—”
“No hospitals,” one of the other miners interrupted, stepping into the room. “The company won’t pay. They say it was worker error.”
I felt the heat of anger rising in my cheeks, but I tamped it down. “He needs surgery. This isn’t something I can fix with bandages and antibiotics.”
The man shook his head. “There’s no money for the helicopter. No money for the hospital.”
I’d heard this before. Too many times. The mining company that employed half the men in the region was notorious for avoiding responsibility for accidents. Between them and the Silva cartel, it was a wonder anyone here survived.
I looked down at Miguel, so young, with fear clouding his eyes. Then I glanced back at his friend, standing firm despite his own obvious pain.
“Get Dr. Yang,” I said to Mariela. “We’re going to need to perform emergency surgery.”
Mariela’s eyes widened. “Here? But we don’t have?—”
“We have enough,” I interrupted. “We have to try.”
