Page 41 of Zorro

“Dr. Quinn will be attending several panels during the conference. There will be plenty of time to ask?—”

“Just a few?” someone shouted. More shouts rang out as people clamored. Madeline smiled then nodded toward Everly. “All right, a few.”

Another hand went up. Then another.

A French neurologist asked about polytrauma load ratios in isolated triage bays. An Israeli coordinator questioned her use of neuroplastic response over sedation in pediatric cases.

Everly answered each with the clipped clarity of someone who had lived inside the data and inside the wreckage. She cited field notes from Mindanao, named case clusters from Mosul.

She was answering a question about cross-border trauma care when Zorro lifted his hand.

She grasped the podium. “Yes?” she said, pointing to him.

"Dr. Quinn," he said, voice smooth, respectful, with that subtle cadence she couldn’t get enough of. "In regions where infrastructure is either compromised or actively hostile, how do you prioritize psychological stabilization when physical triage demands all resources?"

Everly stared at him and for one breathless moment, she forgot every word she had ever known.

That voice. That question. It was brilliant. It was piercing. It was Zorro, asking her something real. Her lips parted. Closed. Opened again.

“That’s…an excellent question,” she managed, then cleared her throat. “I think the answer lies in the intersection of immediacy and dignity. Psychological trauma isn’t secondary. It begins the moment the body recognizes threat. We’ve begun to shift from a model of treat, then assess to one that acknowledges trauma’s presence even in the act of survival.”

Zorro leaned forward slightly, his posture deceptively relaxed. “Would you say the assessment begins before physical treatment?”

Her brows lifted. “Ideally, yes. Pre-triage, if you’ve trained your corpsmen to recognize shock behavior, dissociation, protective aggression, and cognitive silence.”

“My teammates under my care already receive that kind of response. I don’t treat wounds. I treat the whole person.”

“Even in the midst of chaos, danger and active fire?”

“Yes, prioritize, but give them what they need to hold on to hope. A lot of experts think that’s a waste of time. I disagree.”

“So, you’ve already identified the first wound?”

A murmur passed through the audience.

Everly’s throat tightened but her voice held.

“We lost a little girl last year in Nigeria. No burns. No broken bones. Just too much terror. She never spoke again after the fire. She couldn’t swallow. Couldn’t sleep. Her vitals collapsed within forty-eight hours. Nothing else explains it but psychogenic shock. She died with no visible injury.”

“The boy who lived,” Zorro said softly. “The one who wouldn’t let go of me in that one corner away from chaos in Niamey after those terrorists burned their school to the ground without care for who they murdered. You remember?”

“How could I forget?” she whispered, a hush falling over the crowd, but all she could see was him. “You were the one who suggested we bring in a pediatric trauma specialist,” she said, almost disbelieving.

Zorro gave a quiet nod. “We patch the body because it bleeds. But if the mind’s torn open and we leave it untreated, it’ll bleed out, too. Just slower.”

The room was utterly still now.

Everly looked down at the podium, her fingers tight around the edge, as if it could anchor her in place. Her voice dropped half a register, but the words were clear. “You sang a lullaby to him. He was one of the few who healed faster than the others, but the results of bringing the specialist in saved the rest.”

No one moved. The air felt suspended. “We’re tracking long-term mental health deterioration in over seventy percent of pediatric conflict survivors in post-crisis zones. Unseen trauma. Unheard grief. The data’s clear, and we’re still playing catch-up. The psychological first response isn’t soft. It’s survival.”

Applause was immediate.

Zorro didn’t move. Just watched her with that maddening stillness as the room erupted around them. She took a step back, barely breathing, her eyes flicking toward the wings. Madeline was already in motion.

“That’s all the time we have for today. Thank you for coming. As I said, Dr. Quinn—” She nodded toward Zorro. “—and Petty Officer Mateo Martinez will both appear on panels this week. We hope you’ll join us.”

Everly didn’t smile. Couldn’t. As Madeline ushered her offstage, the sound of applause faded to a dull, pounding echo in her chest.