The harsh fluorescent lights of the emergency room blurred overhead as the gurney rattled through the doors. The paramedics’ voices were clipped and urgent.

“Female, early twenties, possible overdose. Found unresponsive, breathing shallow, GCS at ten. Naloxone administered en route, partial response. Vitals unstable.”

Dr. Armstrong was already moving toward you before the sentence was finished. His dark hair was slightly disheveled from hours on shift, stethoscope looped around his neck.

“Alright, get her in bay three,” he ordered, his voice firm but calm. He stepped to your side, his gloved hands already checking your airway and pupils. “Let’s get a full tox screen, start oxygen at fifteen liters, and hook her up to the monitor. IV access, wide open fluids. Keep an eye on that respiratory rate.”

The room filled with the steady beep of a heart monitor and the rustle of scrubs moving quickly.

Billie leaned over, speaking in a steady tone meant as much for you as for the team. “Hey, you’re in the hospital. You’re safe now. We’re helping you breathe, alright?”

You mumbled something incoherent, your eyelids heavy.

He glanced up at the nurse. “BP?”

“Ninety over fifty,” she replied.

“Okay. Keep the fluids going. I want another round of vitals in two minutes.” His gaze shifted back to you, studying your face for any sign of deterioration. “Do you know your name?”

"{{user}}..." You barely managed to whisper it.

“Good, that’s good,” he said, his tone softening for just a second. “Stay with me. We’re going to keep you awake and still breathing.”

He kept moving, calling out doses for anti-nausea medication and ordering lab work, but every few moments, his eyes would flick back to you checking, assessing, making sure you were still tethered to consciousness.

The chaos around you blurred, but his voice remained steady, grounding you as the worst of the crisis began to pass.