"Four minutes."
The ambulance hit a pothole, jostling the gurney. The man's eyes fluttered open, dark brown, almost black in the ambulance lights. For those few seconds, he looked directly at me, and I saw something I'd learned to recognize in Afghanistan.
It wasn't the dazed confusion of an accident victim. This was the flat, watchful stare of someone who'd been expecting violence to find him. Someone who'd stopped being surprised by it.
And there was something else.Help me,those eyes said. Not the words, but the look underneath—raw and unguarded for a moment before his defenses slammed back into place.
I knew that look because I'd worn it. In a field hospital, when the morphine wore off. In therapy sessions I'd quit attending, and in mirrors on the bad days.
When his eyes closed again, I spoke, keeping my voice low under the radio chatter and road noise. "You're going to be okay. We're almost at Harborview. They have the best trauma team in the city. They'll take good care of you."
The words were automatic and hollow. How many times had I said them? In field hospitals in Afghanistan, in the backs of medical transports, and in situations where "okay" was something none of us could guarantee.
This was different from all of those. Somehow, a bullet found its way into a random car accident in Seattle.
Harborview's emergency bay came into view through the back windows—harsh fluorescent light spilling onto rain-slicked concrete. Kayla backed us up to the trauma entrance with practiced precision.
Dr. Reyes was waiting as the doors swung open, already reaching for the chart. "What've we got, Matthew?"
"Male, mid-thirties, GSW to the right torso near the eighth rib. Found unconscious in an MVA, but the wound's unrelated to the crash." I rattled off everything I knew. All business. All protocol.
As we transferred him to the hospital gurney and rolled toward Trauma Bay Three, I hesitated before exiting. Long enough to see them cut away his shirt, revealing more scars along his ribs. Old ones. A pattern that suggested he was no stranger to violence.
"McCabe." Kayla's voice cut through my thoughts. "You coming?"
The emergency team had it handled. They always did. My part was over.
The trauma bay doors swung shut in front of me, leaving me in the hospital's central corridor. Dr. Reyes emerged momentslater, stripping off bloodstained gloves. "Good work out there, McCabe. Clean field care, solid assessment. He's stable."
"The bullet?"
"Lodged against the ninth rib, missed the major vessels. Lucky." She dropped the gloves into a bio-waste container and gave me the look all ER docs perfected—professional gratitude mixed with the clear signal that her attention was already moving to the next crisis. "We've got it from here."
That was it. Official handoff complete.
Charge Nurse Grant appeared with his ever-present clipboard, pen already moving across forms. "Need your incident report. GSW victim, no ID, found at an MVA scene?"
I gave him the basics—timeline, vitals, interventions administered. Professional and by the book. He scribbled notes, asked clarifying questions about the unusual circumstances, and then tucked the forms under his arm.
"Personal effects?"
I hesitated, my hand moving instinctively to the pocket where the damaged photograph waited. "Just this." I pulled it out. "He was holding it when we found him."
Grant slipped it into an evidence bag and sealed it. "Security will log it until next of kin shows up. You know the drill."
I did know the drill. Had done this twenty-seven times this month alone. Hand off care, complete paperwork, restock the ambulance, and move on to the next emergency.
Professional distance was essential. It was the only way to survive this job without losing pieces of yourself to every broken body you assisted.
"Nice work tonight." Grant was already turning toward the next crisis down the hall. "Go get some coffee. You look like hell."
That was my cue. It was an official dismissal. Kayla was probably back at the ambulance already, wondering where I'ddisappeared to. We had equipment to check, reports to finish, and the rest of our shift to complete.
I made it halfway down the corridor before my feet stopped moving.
I saw them working on him through the small observation window of Trauma Bay Three. The team moved with practiced efficiency—one resident suturing the bullet wound while another monitored vitals. Everything moved in sync.
He was going to be fine. He'd been lucky the bullet lodged harmlessly against bone. He'd wake up tomorrow, probably be discharged in a day or two, and return to whatever life he'd been living before someone decided to put a hole in him.
