When I pushed through the heavy doors of the intensive care unit, the fluorescent lights stung my eyes.
Then I saw her.
Clara lay motionless beneath a thin white sheet.
Her porcelain skin—usually flushed with life, warmth, and gentle laughter—was an ugly tapestry of violet, deep indigo, and yellowed contusions.
Her left eye was swollen shut.
Her lip was split, stitched raw at the corner.
One shoulder was angled awkwardly, immobilized in a rigid brace, and a thick transparent tube snaked into her throat, forcing air into her compromised lungs.
Despite the heavy sedation, her pale, trembling hand remained anchored to her lower abdomen.
Protecting what was no longer there.
The heavy door behind me clicked shut.
Dr.
Aris Thorne, the lead trauma surgeon on duty, stepped into the dimly lit room.
He looked exhausted, his scrub top stained with darkening blood around the chest, his eyes rimmed with red.
