Page 101 of The Clinch
I move past him fast, because if I stop, I’ll think about yesterday. The way I let Leo touch me. The way he didn’t reach for anything I didn’t offer. The space he gave me, the steady devotion, like I’m not a problem to solve.
Like I’m the only thing in his world that matters.
I don’t do well with feelings like that.
I do better with vitals.
The first three patients blur together: a teenager with a busted lip who keeps insisting he’s fine, a man with chest pain who looks like he hasn’t slept in a week, and a woman apologizing before I even touch her.
By eight twelve, we’re behind.
By eight thirty-seven, the first trauma comes in.
“Incoming,” someone calls. “MVA. Two minutes.”
The whole ER changes temperature. The air crackles. People move faster without thinking. It’s not panic. It’s muscle memory.
I grab gloves, check the cart, and take my position at the side of the bed. Dr. Patel steps in a second later, gray-streaked hair still damp from his own rushed morning, face already in that controlled mask.
We do this without speaking.
The doors slam open and the stretcher comes through with a body strapped to it, blood on their forehead. A collar around the neck. Unfocused stare.
“Twenty-eight-year-old male,” the paramedic rattles off. “T-boned at an intersection. Airbags deployed. Brief LOC. Complaining of abdominal pain. BP ninety over sixty enroute.”
“Okay,” Dr. Patel says calmly. “Let’s work.”
I lean in and start doing what I do best. Pressure cuff. Pulse ox. IV access. Call out the numbers. Anticipate the next move before it’s asked for.
The patient groans when I palpate his abdomen. There’s something deeper in that kind of pain.
I catch Dr. Patel’s attention.
He’s already thinking the same thing. In the ER, you learn to speak in micro-expressions. It’s a language built from emergency.
Twenty minutes later, the patient is on his way to CT, stabilized enough to breathe without screaming. Dr. Patel peels off his gloves and looks at me.
“Good catch,” he says, like it’s casual.
It isn’t. Compliments in this place are rare and usually earned in blood.
Dr. Patel glances at my ring briefly.
“Go take five minutes before the next disaster arrives,” he says dryly.
The praise lands. The glance at the ring lands harder.
Not because he’s rude.
Because he wasn’t looking at my hand last week.
By ten forty, I catch a lull—one of those thin ER pauses where you chew a protein bar and pretend you’re not still vibrating. I’m at the counter with almonds in my mouth when a woman walks in on her own.
She keeps her sunglasses on and is wearing long sleeves in July. Her hair is yanked back so hard it looks like it hurts. She gives her name in a whisper, trembling like she’s cold.
Marco meets my gaze.
Take this one.
