“You’re not family.”
Three words.
Quietly spoken.
They hit harder than any scream could have.
The doors closed between them.
Madison’s spleen had ruptured.
Her left renal artery had been damaged.
She had three broken ribs, a fractured wrist, and enough blood in her abdomen to kill her within minutes.
The crash report would later say Madison’s Mercedes had struck a concrete divider on Lower Wacker Drive shortly after 1:00 a.m.
Lauren did not know that yet.
All she knew was what existed beneath the sterile lights.
A dying patient.
A hemorrhage.
A clock running faster than everybody in the room.
“Pressure dropping.”
“I see it.”
“Another unit?”
“Give it.”
Lauren worked.
Her hands moved with the same controlled precision that had carried her through fourteen years of medical training.
She clamped the damaged vessel.
Controlled the bleeding.
Removed the ruined spleen.
Called for vascular assistance before anyone else recognized the second injury.
