But there was something off in the rhythm of him.
Dr. Lauren Hayes had just finished scrubbing out of a grueling appendectomy. Her shoulders ached. There was dried fatigue behind her eyes. She was halfway down the hall toward the staff lounge when the sound of those slamming doors pulled her attention like a hooked wire.
She saw him first.
Then she saw the woman in his arms.
Lauren didn’t walk.
She ran.
“Trauma bay—now!” she barked, snapping into motion. “Get a stretcher under her. Move.”
Two nurses sprang forward. The man lowered the woman awkwardly onto the stretcher as if suddenly unsure of where to place his hands. The woman’s head lolled sideways. Her dark hair fell across a face too pale against the harsh fluorescent lights.
Lauren caught the angle of the wrist immediately.
Bent wrong.
The bruising along the jaw—deep purple layered over yellow-green.
Burn marks at the edge of her sleeve.
Lauren felt the familiar cold ripple move down her spine. The one she got when something didn’t fit.
“What’s her name?” Lauren demanded as they pushed the stretcher down the hall.
“Kiara,” the man replied quickly. Too quickly. “Kiara Vaughn.”
“And what happened?”
“She fell. Down the stairs. She’s—she’s clumsy. I tell her all the time to be careful but she never listens.”
Lauren shot him a look so sharp it cut the rest of the sentence clean off.
Accidents did not narrate themselves.
Inside Trauma Bay 3, the controlled chaos began.
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