- Sloane Pierce:
The ER corridor swallowed me whole the moment I pushed through its swinging doors. The sound was a storm—monitors shrilling, stretchers wheeled past at breakneck speed, voices calling out vitals and dosages, the metallic tang of blood and antiseptic burning at the back of my throat. I didn't allow myself the luxury of hesitation. I had trained for this. I lived for this.
A surgical tech intercepted me before I could ask where. "Dr. Pierce, trauma bay three. Patient just arrived—motorcycle collision. Leg's in bad shape, multiple open wounds, head injury. Ortho's tied up. They're waiting on you."
I nodded, already stripping out of the clothes I'd worn into the hospital. I moved into the scrub room, where another nurse handed me sterile scrubs.
The fabric was rough but familiar as I tugged it over my body. Cap over my hair, mask tied snug across my mouth and nose, protective goggles pressed tight against my temples.
I could feel the sweat already gathering at the nape of my neck, but I ignored it. Routine steadied me.
At the sink, I scrubbed in. Fingertips to elbows, methodical, each finger, each crease, each inch of skin scoured until it tingled pink.
The clock ticked somewhere above me, measuring the minutes I dedicated to killing invisible armies of bacteria.
A nurse waited with a sterile towel, patting my arms dry in precise motions. Then the gown—slipped onto my shoulders with practiced grace—and finally the gloves, snapped over my hands, each finger seated snug in its latex sheath.
By the time I entered trauma bay three, I was no longer Sloane Pierce, the woman with a regimented schedule and a life stripped of distractions. I was Dr. Pierce, surgeon. Nothing else mattered.
The smell hit first: blood, acrid and raw, mixed with antiseptic and the smell of gas and what smelt like leather.
Then the sight of her. The motorcyclist lay on the gurney, her body a patchwork of blood and torn clothing.
Her right leg was twisted at an unnatural angle, bone pressing grotesquely against skin. Her left arm hung limply, an obvious fracture. Deep lacerations scored her shoulder and side, leaking crimson into the sterile sheets.
A monitor beeped steadily beside her, tracking vitals that dipped just shy of dangerous. Her chest rose and fell under the oxygen mask, labored but steady.
Dark hair spilled across the pillow, matted with blood at the temple. The helmet must have saved her life, but even helmets don't make you invincible.
"Vitals?" I snapped as I approached.
The anesthesiologist, Dr. Lee, glanced up from his station. "BP ninety over sixty, pulse one-thirty, respirations shallow but regular. Concussion likely, but pupils are reactive. She's sedated for now. We'll keep her under while you work."
"Good." I turned to the scrub nurse. "Let's get ortho trays ready. I'll need retractors, suction, irrigation, and an external fixator prepped for that femur."
"Yes, Doctor." Instruments clattered as the nurse obeyed.
I took my place at the patient's side, forcing my focus narrower and narrower until the chaos of the room blurred at its edges.
There was only her body, broken but repairable, and my hands, steady and sure. "Scalpel."
The nurse passed it into my palm, the weight both familiar and grounding. I began with the leg. The fracture was severe—a compound break of the femur, jagged bone pushing through torn muscle.
Carefully, I irrigated the wound with sterile saline, washing away gravel, dirt, blood. Suction hissed as it cleared the field. My eyes tracked every movement, my mind cataloging every step.
"Retractor." I eased tissue aside, exposing the break. My chest tightened—not with panic, but with a thrill I would never admit aloud.
This was where I belonged: in the blood and light, where precision and speed determined life or death.
"External fixator."
The scrub nurse placed the device in my hand, a framework of rods and pins. I aligned the bone fragments, sliding steel through muscle and into place with care.
Each pin clicked into the frame, holding the bone stable. Once it was locked, I flushed the wound again, then began suturing layers of muscle back into alignment.
My stitches were neat, deliberate, each one pulling torn flesh together with the promise of healing.
"Fracture in the ulna," the resident murmured, pointing at the X-ray film clipped to the lightbox.
"I'll handle that next. Cast ready?"
"Yes, Doctor."
I moved to her arm. A simple closed reduction this time—thank God for small mercies. I manipulated the bones back into alignment, the click of them settling into place loud even under the hum of machines. A cast was wrapped, layer after layer, hardening into protective armor.
Next came the lacerations. Deep cuts along her shoulder and ribs, edges jagged from impact. "Sutures, 3-0 nylon." The needle driver fit against my fingers like an extension of myself.
One by one, I closed the wounds. Blood welled, slowed, then stopped beneath the steady rhythm of my hands.
I cleaned each wound meticulously, unwilling to leave even a whisper of debris behind. Infection could undo everything.
"How's she holding?" I asked Dr. Lee.
"Stable. Heart rate's slowing. BP improving."
"Good. Let's keep her warm. Blood type?"
"O negative. Already started transfusion."
I nodded, relief skimming my chest before disappearing again under focus. I worked on, closing wound after wound, each knot tying her body back together. Sweat dripped under my mask, but I didn't stop. Not until every laceration was closed, every break stabilized, every bleeding vessel cauterized.
Hours passed. I didn't feel them. Surgery always bent time until it was meaningless. There was only the next move, the next suture, the next clamp.
Finally, I stepped back. Her body lay repaired, battered but whole. The monitors told me her vitals had steadied.
Her chest rose and fell in rhythm, no longer shallow but strong. She would live. That was the only victory that mattered.
I peeled off my gloves, the snap echoing in the suddenly quieter room. Nurses moved to clean the instruments, to dress the wounds, to ready her for transfer.
I stripped the gown from my shoulders, sweat chilling against my skin. My hands trembled slightly—not from fear, but from adrenaline ebbing away.
"She'll recover," I said, more to myself than anyone else. "It'll take time, but she'll hopefully walk again soon. She'll ride again too, if she's reckless enough to try."
The resident gave me a wary smile. "Good work, Dr. Pierce."
I nodded, but my eyes stayed on the patient. I didn't know her name yet, only the wreckage of her body and the puzzle I'd pieced back together. To me, she was not yet a person. She was a case, a challenge, a responsibility.