Page 11 of Midnight Between Us
“Should we call it in?”
“Don’t call anyone, not yet.We have to move—I’m not losing him.”
They scramble.I stay kneeling by his side, one hand on his wrist, watching the faint flutter of a pulse return like it had second thoughts.
So did I.
But now he’s back.
And I’m not letting go this time.
I ride with him in the back of the ambulance.Not because I need to—but because no one else can do this.
Because I’m not ready to let go of him.
He’s stabilized by the time we pull into Birchwood Clinic’s private entrance.I’d called ahead—and told them we had a John Doe.Told them I’d take over myself.
They didn’t question it.Why would they?I run this place.
ChapterThree
Simone
There’sa difference between a trauma response and a personal one.
In theory, I know that.I’ve been trained, certified, battle-tested.I’ve cracked open chests, stabilized fractures, stitched skin so thin it could have split like rice paper.You don’t freeze.You don’t think.You move.You follow protocol.You don’t let your hands shake.
But right now, my hands won’t stop shaking.There’s a battle within me.Should I save him, or smother him, since I hate this man with all my heart.
“Vitals are crashing,” the nurse says, pressing the monitor screen.“BP’s dropping.Eighty over forty and falling fast.”
That’s what it takes for me to wake up from my personal vendetta, of course.The reason I studied medicine is to save lives and not to ...focus on the right now, Simone.
“Hang another unit of blood,” I snap.“Push fluids.I need an OR prepped.Now.”
Someone hesitates.I don’t see who.I just hear him, “He’d be better in a hospital, but?—”
“Move, people,” I say again.“He’s not going to survive a second transport.”
They scatter.
We wheel him into the tiny OR.Technically, it’s not design for this type of surgery—we’re a small-town clinic, not a trauma center—but my employers have planned for this.Stocked the place with just enough for when someone needs saving quietly.No press.No paperwork.Just blood, bone, and decisions.
“Call Doctor Aldridge,” I call out, already turning toward the sink.“Tell him I need him to fly here for a post-op neuro consult.Now.”
“Which Doctor Aldridge,” someone asks.
Since his bones need repair, I simply answer, “Both.”
One nurse pulls the gurney sheets while another adjusts the overhead light.The tray’s already being set—metal tools gleaming under the too-white bulbs.Bone saw, drill, suction.Gauze.Lined up like soldiers.
I scrub in fast.Too fast.Elbows to fingertips, rinse, repeat.
I don’t have time to breathe, so I don’t.
I scrub like in the old days of med school—back when failure was still just a theory, not bleeding out under the harsh lights of an OR, waiting for me to save it.
“Neuro kit’s ready,” a nurse calls.Her voice is steadier than mine feels.
