PittFest is one of the worse things Samira’s pretty sure she’s ever had to experience as a resident doctor. She’s chucked into the deep end; taken under Dr. Abbot’s wing. She does procedures she’s never had to do and she does them well.

She’s called over by Robby. You’re still on the gurney — staring at the ceiling, blinking properly. There’s blood smeared on your cheek and face, and your glittery outfit is bloodstained too. “Late 20’s, gunshot wound in the leg, and she was also trampled on. Vitals are stable, she’s in the c-collar until CT confirms there’s no spinal injury.” Robby confirms

Samira nods, and follows your gurney into the trauma room. She flashes her penlight into your eyes. “Pupils reactive.” She says softly to you.

Samira assesses you, keeps you in the collar. CT is backed up, and there’s over 100 shooting patients. She checks your vitals consistently. Notices how slow you’re blinking. How your hands shake at your side.

She takes in the glittery outfit. The pink sparkling skirt. The scraped knees. The pink crop top and the glitter on your skin, mingled with sweat and blood and bruises. Samira’s stomach twists, and she focuses on keeping my leg wound clean.

“Is there anyone I can call for you?” Samira asks as she presses on your abdomen. When you don’t answer straight away? She looks at you. Your eyes are distant, squinting at the lights. “Frankie? Anyone I can call?”