Mount Mercy

“You pull it,” I said, forbidding my voice to shake, “and he’ll bleed out. It hit a main artery. The pressure of the blade’s all that’s keeping him alive.”

He looked down at our hands. “Blood’s filling up his chest cavity and squeezing his heart. If I don’t pull it out to relieve the pressure, he’s dead.”

I focused on the pulse monitor. He was right: each beep came with just a little more difficulty. I could hear the man dying. But I could imagine the frantic, terrifying nightmare that would ensue if that blade came out in the ER: instead of a slow leak we’d have a gushing firehose. “I’ll do it upstairs,” I told him.

“We don’t have time.”

Another beep from the monitor. This one was agonizing: everyone around the gurney felt it. I could visualize the heart being crushed, fighting against the pressure. I could feel myself wavering... but it was just too risky. “You can’t do this down here!” I snapped.

“I’m his doctor.” He was as calm as I was panicked. But he was running out of patience.

“Why even call for a surgical consult if you’re not going to listen to me?” I asked desperately.

“I didn’t.”

My heart flip-flopped. What?! Was I in the wrong place?

“I did,” said a voice from behind us.

Both of us craned over our shoulders. Dr. Henry Bartell, administrator of the hospital. He still goes by Doctor, even though it’s ten years since he traded the ER for spreadsheets and meetings.

“My first day and already you’re second-guessing me?” said the Irish doctor.

“Don’t push it, Corrigan,” Bartell told him. “You’re not in LA now. You set a foot wrong here, I’ll bounce you out the door. Beckett’s our best surgeon. If she says it stays in, it stays in.”

I felt myself flush down to my roots. Bartell and I get on, mainly because I’m the only person who gets their paperwork in on time. I’m not trying to be the teacher’s pet: following the rules is just the way I’m wired.

The doctor moved his hands off the knife, taking mine with them. I sighed in relief. But then Corrigan turned to face me, leaned in and loomed. Face-on, he seemed even bigger: those shoulders seemed to block out the whole ER until it was just him and me. “You think it’s too risky?” He was still calm, still controlled, but I could hear the frustration boiling away under the surface. He was sure he was right, just as I was.

I nodded. “Mm-hmm.” I crossed my arms, glared, and tried to look assertive. Then uncrossed them. Dammit!

“Thing is, Beckett, slow and certain might be the way to go when you surgeons are upstairs in Mount fucking Olympus but down here in the trenches we need to take some chances.” His voice was fast and hard, the accent like being caressed by silver-veined granite. “You’re the cautious type? I get that. It’s kind of adorable. And if I ever come upstairs, I’ll sit with you and fill in every form in triplicate before we so much as cut a toenail. But down here, in the ER, with my patient, my word is God and if we need to take chances, we’ll take them. Are you really a good surgeon?”

“What?” My head was spinning and my face was hot. I was being dressed down, but it didn’t feel cruel. Not when, with every word, those eyes were burning down into mine, melting me just when I needed to be made of iron.

“Are you really a good surgeon?” he repeated.

“Yes!” I’d never admit that, normally, but I was flustered.

“Good.”

And with one quick move, he pulled out the knife.

2

Amy

FOR A SECOND, I just stood there staring. He didn’t just do that. He did not just do that. Then Corrigan extended his arm with a flourish and let the knife go. It fell and thunked into the floor, the tip buried in the linoleum. Blood gushed in red rivers from the wound. I could feel panic spread through the people around the gurney as the numbers on the blood pressure monitor went into freefall. A nurse met my eyes across the table: is he crazy?!

Behind me, Bartell got the words out before I could. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he bellowed.

But Corrigan was utterly calm. He reached down and grabbed my hands. A jolt went through me, right down to my toes. There was something about his touch, strong and warm….

He guided my hands into the wound. “Keep pressure there,” he told me. I pressed hard and the bleeding slowed. But we still only had seconds to save this guy.

Corrigan started probing the wound, searching for the severed artery. He had to move in close and his hip pressed against mine. Two paper-thin layers of scrub material separated naked me from naked him. I was close enough that I could catch the scent of him and it was addictive, sweet vanilla with a heady kick of sandalwood. Part of me was mad at him. Part of me just wanted to bury my nose between his pecs.