Page 15 of Break For Me
"Push another twenty milligrams. I need fifteen minutes to close."
I complete the seal. I test it by gently insufflating the bowel proximal to the repair.
No leak. The suture line holds.
I irrigate the cavity again. Three full liters. I wait until the return runs clear, a pale pink wash against the white of the gauze.
I check the landmarks. The spleen is intact. The liver is firm and uninjured. The retroperitoneum is soft.
The bullet tracked laterally after it shredded the bowel. It’s embedded in the iliac crest. I leave it there. Digging metal out of a pelvic bone with these tools would be a butchery I won’t commit.
I begin the closure. Peritoneum. Fascia. Subcutaneous. Skin.
My shoulders are on fire. My lower back has locked into a rigid arch. The muscles along my spine are seizing in rhythmic spasms.
I tie the final knot. I snip the suture and step back.
The patient’s color has shifted from ash to a pale peach. His pressure is ninety. His pulse has dropped to ninety-five.
He’s alive because I rebuilt his gut on a door. The thought gives me nothing. No pride. No relief.
It’s just a clinical acknowledgment. The repair is adequate. The next twelve hours will decide if he survives the infection.
"Keep the fluids running," I say. My voice is raspy from the heat of the stove. "Ceftriaxone one gram IV every twelve. Watch for rigidity in the belly."
Garrett nods. He’s already wrapping a blood pressure cuff around the man’s arm.
I check the IV line before I move. The catheter is in the left antecubital vein. It’s a good stick, but beside it are two failed attempts.
Two punctures with small hematomas blooming under the skin. A clean miss that was withdrawn.
These weren't the misses of an amateur. The vein selection was perfect. The angle was correct.
These were the misses of a tremor. Someone with a trained hand who couldn't keep it steady.
Alessandro.
He had the expertise. He didn't have the detachment. He saw a husband where I saw a puzzle.
I strip my gloves. My hands are pruned and white from the latex. I flex them. They still work.
I turn around.
Rocco hasn't moved. He’s exactly where he collapsed, back against the wall, legs splayed like a broken doll.
His chin rests on his chest. His breathing is a slow, wet rasp.
Blood has soaked through the field dressing I gave him in the truck. A dark stain has spread from his forearm across his lap, pooling on the floorboards.
"I need help moving him," I say.
Garrett looks at the giant on the floor. "How much does he weigh?"
"Two hundred and forty pounds. Maybe more. He’s all bone and density."
We cross the room. I crouch beside him and check his carotid pulse. It’s rapid. Weak.
His skin is cool and clammy. Sweat beads along the shorn skin of his scalp.
