In Trauma One, the room filled with motion and noise, IV lines snapping into place, monitors screaming numbers no one wanted to see, and as I cut away the child’s jacket, my hands froze when I saw the bruises, unmistakable, human, finger-shaped, and the remains of a plastic restraint around her wrist, chewed through with desperate force.
“This wasn’t an accident,” Allison whispered.
“No,” I said. “It wasn’t.”
The heart monitor flatlined moments later.
“Starting compressions,” I said, already pressing down, counting under my breath, sweat dripping as seconds stretched into eternity.
The dog dragged himself closer, resting his head against the bed, whining softly, rhythmically, like a prayer.
“Epi’s in,” Allison said.
“Come on,” I muttered. “Stay with us.”
And then, impossibly, the monitor chirped back to life.
“She’s back,” someone said, voice cracking.
Relief washed over us, but it was thin, fragile, because something about the room still felt wrong, heavy, like the air before a tornado.
While the girl was rushed to CT, I finally turned my attention fully to the dog, cutting away the mud-caked vest to reveal Kevlar, military-grade, and beneath it a bullet wound that made my hands tremble.