Page 10 of A Prescription to My Heart

“Talia, we could use a hand.”

I nod and hurry over.

I push through the doorway of Room 8, where the commotion is coming from, and stop cold.

Soren is already there, somehow always first on the scene even out of the OR, gloved hands working with practiced precision. His voice is calm but firm, directing the team around him. The patient—Lucas Johnson, five years old, pneumonia—is struggling to breathe, his tiny chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. His skin is too pale, lips tinged blue.

Panic flares in my chest, but I shove it down. Focus.

I move forward, pulling on gloves. “What happened?”

Soren barely glances at me. “He started deteriorating ten minutes ago. Oxygen sats are dropping fast.” His voice is clipped, all business. “I need to intubate.”

I frown. “You sure that’s necessary? He was stable this morning.”

“Does helookstable to you?” His eyes flick to me, dark and unreadable.

Annoying.

Still, he’s right. Lucas is struggling, his tiny body working overtime for air.

I reach for the chart at the foot of the bed. “Did you try a non-rebreather first?”

Soren exhales sharply. “Of course. Nothing’s working.”

He gestures to the respiratory therapist. “I need the laryngoscope.”

I watch as he tilts Lucas’s head, fingers steady. He’s infuriating, but his hands move with undeniable skill.

“Nurse Vance,” he says.

I step forward automatically, positioning my hands. Lucas’s skin is warm under my gloves, his pulse rapid against my fingertips.

Soren slides the tube in with a practiced ease that shouldn’t impress me—but it does.

“Tube’s in,” he confirms. “Bag him.”

A nurse moves to squeeze the ambu bag, pushing oxygen into Lucas’s lungs. The monitor’s alarms slow, but the numbers are still low.

“Come on, kid,” I murmur.

Soren watches the monitor, jaw tight. “Sats are climbing.”

Lucas’s tiny chest rises more evenly now. The tension in the room eases, just slightly.

Soren exhales. “That was close.”

I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “I’ll let Dr. Greene know.” Thisishis patient, after all. Not that Super Surgeon Soren Calloway cares.

As if he heard my thoughts, his eyes flick to me. There’s something in them—something unreadable, like he’s seeing me for the first time.

Then, just as quickly, it’s gone.

He turns to another nurse. “Tell Greene to monitor him closely. I want an ABG in fifteen minutes.”

With the immediate danger over, staff begins to disperse.

I pull off my gloves, tossing them in the bin. My hands are still steady, but my heart is racing.

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