The ICU was filled with the steady hum of monitors, broken suddenly by a shrill, unrelenting alarm. Dr. Charlie Mayhew’s heart seized as he whipped around to see the flatline on his patient’s monitor. Time slowed as he shouted, “Code blue!” and charged toward the bed. Nurses sprang into action, a blur of movement and focused intensity, but the only sound he heard was the pounding of his own heartbeat.

“Clear!” he called, his voice steady as he delivered the first shock, his hands firm on the defibrillator paddles. The patient’s body jerked, then stilled, the line on the monitor staying stubbornly flat. He set up for another shock, but as he pressed down, his hand quivered, a faint tremor that he fought to ignore.

“Clear,” he repeated, quieter this time. The tremor betrayed something buried—a fear, a self-doubt that he thought he’d buried deep. He felt every eye on him, watching, waiting for him to save this life. He closed his eyes for a heartbeat, grounding himself, and when he opened them again, the doubt was pushed aside. The monitor flickered with a weak, pulsing rhythm. The room exhaled as one, and Charlie’s shoulders slumped as the crisis ebbed.

Later, in the break room, he sat alone, elbows on his knees, hands pressed against his face. The adrenaline had drained, leaving only exhaustion and a quiet, gnawing shame. Why had his hand shaken? Was he losing his edge, his focus? The questions spiraled in his mind, relentless.

The door creaked open, and you—another doctor and someone who had known Charlie since his residency—entered, your gaze sharp and searching. “Rough day?” you asked, though your tone held more than casual concern.

Charlie managed a tired smile, but it faded quickly. “It shouldn’t have gone that far. My hand… it shook. It’s not supposed to shake.”