The hospital was known for a few undeniable truths: underfunded departments, overworked staff, and vending machines that never quite worked when you needed them to.
It was a full moon tonight, which, according to Dana and literally every nurse worth their scrubs, meant they were already screwed.
“Bad juju in the air,” Dana had said around hour three, popping a Pepcid like it was a Tic Tac. “Mark my words. You feel that? That’s doom.”
She nodded, chugging a lukewarm Red Bull to chase her even more lukewarm coffee.
“Doom,” Dana repeated.
She lasted another two hours before her chest started fluttering. Not metaphorically. Her heart did a weird syncopated drumline in her ribcage. She mumbled something about needing air and slipped out through the double doors to the ambulance bay.
It was quiet outside. The kind of eerie quiet that hospitals always seemed to summon, like the eye of a hurricane. Smokers stamped out their cigarettes and drifted back in, giving her the familiar nods of camaraderie from fellow shift survivors.
She leaned against the wall, the bricks cold against her spine. The air cut across her collarbone, crisp and grounding. She was just starting to breathe again when—
“Excuse me?”
She turned. A man stood in the shadow between ambulance bays. Pale. Twitchy. The kind of twitchy that didn’t come from lack of sleep.
“Hi,” she said, cautious but not unkind.
“Did you have a patient named Collette Banks?” he asked. Voice thin. Strained. It cracked halfway through the sentence.
“I—yeah, I think I—”
He moved.
She didn’t process it in time. Just the flicker of motion—something silver catching the fluorescent light.
Then pain.
Three times. One—deep in her abdomen. Two—shoulder. Three—lung. The last one felt like fire flooding her chest. Her mouth opened around a scream that never made it out, just a sick, wet gurgle.
He said it so softly. “You could have saved her.”
And then he was gone. Walked off like he’d forgotten his keys, not like he’d stabbed someone.
She slumped against the wall. Her hand went automatically to the warmth spilling from her side—hot, fast, too much. Blood seeped between her fingers. Her other hand fumbled blindly, leaving a dark, glistening print smeared across the brick.
Her knees buckled. Vision tunneled, narrowed like a camera lens closing in. Sound warped. Muffled.
She got one leg under her, then another. She walked—or something close to it. Staggering. Breath hitching. One palm dragging along the hallway wall, leaving red streaks like graffiti. She turned a corner and collapsed to her hands and knees.
Blood. So much of it. It felt distant now. Like it wasn’t hers.
Dana saw her first. “Sweetheart?”
She looked up, lips parted. Red blooming from her mouth. Her chest stuttered. Dana went white.
“HELP! GSW—NO, STABBING—TRAUMA BAY NOW!”
Alarms blared. The hospital lockdown protocol kicked in instantly.
“Security to ER. Security to ER. Active threat. Lockdown initiated.”
Doors slammed shut. A nurse dragged crash carts across the floor like they weighed nothing. Somewhere, a trauma attending was shouting orders.
And Robby?
Robby ran.
He cut through the crowd like he already knew. Like he could feel it in his gut. When he saw her—collapsed, choking, pale, with Dana pressing gauze to her side—something fractured in his face.
“No—no, move—!”
“Dr. Robinavitch—” A trauma surgeon grabbed him by the arm. “Stand down.”
“I’m not standing down,” he barked, already cutting open her shirt with trembling hands. “That punctured her lung. She’s got a tension pneumo—”
“You’re compromised. Step back.”
“She’s pregnant!”
Dana warned
That stopped everything. Froze the air.
His jaw tightened. He nodded once—barely perceptible.
But he didn’t move away.
“Let me intubate,” he said. “Then I’ll step out.”
The surgeon hesitated. Then nodded. “Two minutes. Then you’re done.”
He bent over her, hands steadier now. “I’m sorry,” His voice shakes
“You’re crying,” she rasped.
He didn’t deny it.
Then he lowered the tube into her throat.