Stretchers came through the lobby at a dead run.
Two soldiers in tan uniforms pushed the first one. A medic rode alongside it, squeezing a breathing bag over the patient’s face.
“Sergeant Major Calvin Redd, forty-nine!” the medic shouted. “Blast injury and rollover. Pressure sixty-eight over forty. Pulse one thirty-four. Belly’s hard as a rock!”
The second stretcher was right behind.
“Staff Sergeant Caleb Frost, twenty-six!”
His left leg ended below the knee. A tourniquet was cinched high and tight around his thigh. His face was gray.
Dr. Owen Hadley came hurrying out of the emergency department with two residents behind him. He was a good doctor on a normal day. Fifty-two years old. Kind to the nurses. Careful with his patients.
This was not a normal day.
“Bays one and two! Move!”
They rolled Redd into the first trauma bay. Dana followed. Her feet moved before her brain caught up.
“Two large IV lines,” Hadley called out. “Type and cross for blood. Then straight to CT.”
His voice cracked on the last word.
Redd’s eyes drifted toward the bright ceiling lights. His lips had a blue tint around the edges.
“Where’s Kestrel?” he rasped. “They said she’s here.”
Admiral Keene stood at the foot of the bed. His jaw was clenched tight.
“She’s coming, Sergeant Major. Hold on.”
Commander Dane stepped in front of the admiral. He was sweating now. “Admiral, we’re still trying to locate the individual. HR is checking the—”
“Locate faster.”
Dana’s mind was racing back through eleven months. The rotor wash. The tray of instruments snatched out of the air. The straight lines on the floor. The chair facing the door.
Tyler tugged on her sleeve. “Dana. What is happening right now?”
“I think…” Dana said slowly. “I think we’ve all been very stupid.”
The heart monitor shrieked.
“Pressure sixty over thirty!” a resident shouted.
Dr. Hadley froze. His hands just hung in the air over the patient.
“CT,” he muttered. “We need a CT. We need to know where the bleeding is.”
“He won’t survive the scanner.”
The voice came from the doorway.
Everyone turned.
Elise stood there in her wrinkled navy scrubs. Brown hair falling out of its bun. The yellow wet floor sign still in her hand.
She set the sign down on the floor.
She didn’t look at Kayla. She didn’t look at Commander Dane. She looked only at the man on the bed.
“Sergeant Major,” she said softly. “It’s me.”
Redd’s eyes rolled toward her. They found her face. Tears spilled out of the corners and ran down into his ears.
“Doc,” he whispered. “Kez.”
“Stay with me,” Elise said. “I’ve got you.”
And Dana, who had laughed along with everybody else for eleven months, felt her knees go weak.
Adrian Hawthorne is a celebrated author and dedicated archivist who finds inspiration in the hidden stories of the past. Educated at Oxford, he now works at the National Archives, where preserving history fuels his evocative writing. Balancing archival precision with creative storytelling, Adrian founded the Hawthorne Institute of Literary Arts to mentor emerging writers and honor the timeless art of narrative.