Page 96 of Returned Mail

Just—stops.

The nurse's head snaps up.

Around us, everything erupts into motion. Nurses appear from nowhere, moving fast, their shoes squeaking against the polished floor. A doctor rushes past me, white coat flying behind him, stethoscope bouncing against his chest. Someone shouts down the hallway. “Sergeant Hale—BP dropping⁠—”

The world tilts.

No.

“Get the crash cart!”

Another voice cut through in an urgent tone. “He's going into shock⁠—”

I try to move, try to follow them, try to do something, but my legs won't work. My body has turned to stone. The nurse behind the desk is already moving, abandoning her post, running toward the double doors marked ICU - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

I force myself forward.

One step.

Two.

My bag slips off my shoulder and hits the floor with a dull thud, but I don't stop. I can't stop. I reach the doors just as another nurse appears, blocking my path.

“Ma'am, you can't go back there.”

Her hand is firm on my arm, gentle but unyielding. “Please—” My voice cracks.

“You need to wait here.”

“He's—I need to⁠—”

“Ma'am.” She says way firmer now.

Through the small window in the door, I see them. A swarm of people in scrubs surrounding a bed I can't fully see. Someone's doing chest compressions. Someone else is shouting orders. The heart monitor's frantic beeping cuts through everything—too fast, too erratic—and then a long, terrible tone.

“Charging to 200⁠—”

“Clear!” I hear the sound. The awful, electric thump of the defibrillator.

My knees buckle, and the nurse catches me before I hit the ground. “Is there someone I can call for you?” Her voice sounds far away. I shake my head, because there's no one.

Through the door, I hear fragments.

“—still no pulse⁠—”

“—again, charging to 300⁠—”

“—Hale, stay with us⁠—”

His name.

They're saying his name, and I'm just standing here.

On the wrong side of the door.

Helpless.

Useless.