2 St Vincent’s ED

The automatic doors of St Vincent’s Emergency burst open with a hiss as a paramedic pushed in a gurney, his face drawn tight with urgency. He was broad-shouldered, grizzled, eyes tired from nights that never ended. The gurney rattled over tile, cutting through the hum of voices, the far-off sirens, the steady blip of monitors.

“Motor vehicle collision!” he barked. “Male, fifties. Cardiac arrest en route—ROSC in the rig. Vitals unstable.”

Dr. Kimberly Hall, twenty-six, sharp-eyed and composed, was scanning charts when the commotion reached her. Auburn hair in a neat ponytail, stethoscope hanging like a badge of office and burden, she pivoted and met the team outside Trauma Bay Two.

“What have we got?” she said, already falling in beside the moving bed.

“Multiple rib fractures—likely left-sided flail segment,” the paramedic said. “Suspected punctured left lung; decreased air entry, tracheal deviation at pickup. Left chest is dull and tight. Shattered femur—mid-shaft. BP trending down. He coded once; got him back with compressions and one epi.”

“Type and crossmatch, two units O-neg,” Kimberly said, voice quick but even. “Get a trauma panel, portable CXR. Prep for chest tube and call the OR.”

She glanced down—and froze.

Blood and road grime masked the face, but the shape of it, the grey at the temples, the stubborn line of the jaw—

The clipboard dipped.

“Oh my God.”

The paramedic looked over. “You know him?”

Kim swallowed, steadying her hands. “Yeah,” she said quietly. She swept damp hair from the man’s brow with a gloved knuckle. “He’s my ex’s father. Tom Michaels.”

A ragged sound escaped Tom’s throat—half-groan, half-breath. Pain had carved itself into every line of his face.

Kim lowered, voice softening without losing edge. “Tom. It’s Kim,” she said, penlight flicking across his pupils. “I’m here. You’re at St Vincent’s. Hold on, okay?”

His eyelids fluttered—recognition or reflex, it didn’t matter. He was still with them.

Kim straightened. “Let’s move,” she told the trauma nurse. “Page Dr Yuen—orthopaedics and general. He won’t make an hour without intervention.”

They rolled into the bay. Hands moved in practiced choreography: monitors clipped, lines run, oxygen flowing. A portable X-ray slid in; a nurse cracked open a chest-tube kit.

“Left chest—tension physiology,” someone called.

“Confirm and decompress,” Kim said. “Fourth or fifth intercostal, anterior axillary line. Prep wide.”

“Two large-bore IVs in,” another voice. “Pressure’s 80 systolic.”

“Hang the first unit,” Kim said. “And get a FAST when we can breathe him.”

Plastic parted flesh; a rush of air and blood hissed from the left chest. The monitor numbers ticked upward by degrees. Tom’s breathing eased from a wet gasp to a ragged pull.

“Chest rise improving,” the nurse said.

“Good. Splint that femur; he’s going to theatre,” Kim replied. “Dr Yuen’s ETA?”

“Ten minutes.”

Kim stepped back just long enough for the wave to break over her—backyard barbecues, awkward Christmases, Jake’s uneven smile in a borrowed suit. Then she reached for the sterile field, helping secure the tube, re-checking breath sounds. Work first. Feel later.

When the immediate storm calmed a fraction, she slipped out of the bay, tugging her phone from her coat pocket with a trembling hand. ‘Jake’ stared up from her contacts.

Months of silence. A bad ending. None of it mattered now.

She exhaled and pressed call.

The line rang.

Once.

Twice.