Page 2 of Buried Past (First in Line #3)

This was different from all of those. Somehow, a bullet found its way into a random car accident in Seattle.

Harborview's emergency bay came into view through the back windows—harsh fluorescent light spilling onto rain-slicked concrete. Kayla backed us up to the trauma entrance with practiced precision.

Dr. Reyes was waiting as the doors swung open, already reaching for the chart. "What've we got, Matthew?"

"Male, mid-thirties, GSW to the right torso near the eighth rib. Found unconscious in an MVA, but the wound's unrelated to the crash." I rattled off everything I knew. All business. All protocol.

As we transferred him to the hospital gurney and rolled toward Trauma Bay Three, I hesitated before exiting. Long enough to see them cut away his shirt, revealing more scars along his ribs. Old ones. A pattern that suggested he was no stranger to violence.

"McCabe." Kayla's voice cut through my thoughts. "You coming?"

The emergency team had it handled. They always did. My part was over.

The trauma bay doors swung shut in front of me, leaving me in the hospital's central corridor. Dr. Reyes emerged moments later, stripping off bloodstained gloves. "Good work out there, McCabe. Clean field care, solid assessment. He's stable."

"The bullet?"

"Lodged against the ninth rib, missed the major vessels. Lucky." She dropped the gloves into a bio-waste container and gave me the look all ER docs perfected—professional gratitude mixed with the clear signal that her attention was already moving to the next crisis. "We've got it from here."

That was it. Official handoff complete.

Charge Nurse Grant appeared with his ever-present clipboard, pen already moving across forms. "Need your incident report. GSW victim, no ID, found at an MVA scene?"

I gave him the basics—timeline, vitals, interventions administered. Professional and by the book. He scribbled notes, asked clarifying questions about the unusual circumstances, and then tucked the forms under his arm.

"Personal effects?"

I hesitated, my hand moving instinctively to the pocket where the damaged photograph waited. "Just this." I pulled it out. "He was holding it when we found him."

Grant slipped it into an evidence bag and sealed it. "Security will log it until next of kin shows up. You know the drill."

I did know the drill. Had done this twenty-seven times this month alone. Hand off care, complete paperwork, restock the ambulance, and move on to the next emergency.

Professional distance was essential. It was the only way to survive this job without losing pieces of yourself to every broken body you assisted.

"Nice work tonight." Grant was already turning toward the next crisis down the hall. "Go get some coffee. You look like hell."

That was my cue. It was an official dismissal. Kayla was probably back at the ambulance already, wondering where I'd disappeared to. We had equipment to check, reports to finish, and the rest of our shift to complete.

I made it halfway down the corridor before my feet stopped moving.

I saw them working on him through the small observation window of Trauma Bay Three. The team moved with practiced efficiency—one resident suturing the bullet wound while another monitored vitals. Everything moved in sync.

He was going to be fine. He'd been lucky the bullet lodged harmlessly against bone. He'd wake up tomorrow, probably be discharged in a day or two, and return to whatever life he'd been living before someone decided to put a hole in him.

So why couldn't I walk away?

Was it the unusual circumstances? Gunshot victims didn't typically turn up in traffic accidents. The cops would want to talk to him when he woke up and try to piece together what had happened.

It wasn't that. It had something to do with how he'd held that photograph. Even unconscious and bleeding, he'd clutched it like it was the only thing keeping him in our world. It was like the soldiers I'd seen holding pictures of home when everything else was falling apart.

And those scars. So many.

Turning away from the observation window, I headed for the elevator. I walked as far as the hospital's main lobby before I stopped again.

It was past 1 AM, and the space was mostly empty. A few people scattered across the uncomfortable chairs, waiting for news about loved ones or riding out minor emergencies in the urgent care clinic. Vending machines hummed against the far wall.

I bought coffee from the machine near the information desk, black and bitter enough to strip paint. The paper cup burned my fingers through the thin cardboard sleeve. I settled into a chair and told myself I was taking a quick break before returning to finish the shift.

Across the lobby, a woman bounced a crying baby, murmuring soft reassurances that didn't seem to work. An older man dozed in his wheelchair, chin dropped to his chest, and a teenager with earbuds scrolled endlessly on his phone screen.

All of them had reasons to be where they were. They were waiting for news about someone important.

I had no reason to stay.

My fingers found that piece of worn leather on my keychain, rubbing it the way I had during the worst calls in Afghanistan. Some things you hold onto.

And some people you don't walk away from.

I tried to focus on practical concerns. Kayla was probably wondering where I'd gone. We had hours left on our shift, and Seattle's streets didn't pause for personal complications.

A memory surfaced in the back of my mind—dusty road outside Kandahar, convoy stopped by an IED, and my interpreter bleeding out under my hands while I tried to keep pressure on wounds that wouldn't stop seeping.

Farid had been twenty-three, spoke three languages, and sent money home to his family every month.

He'd been carrying a photo of them when the blast went off.

It took a few minutes to get to him, and then I worked to revive him. Stay with me. Stay with me. The shrapnel had done too much damage. He'd died looking at that photograph, trying to say something in Pashto that I couldn't understand.

As I sat there, staring at the hospital's institutional carpet between my boots, I kept thinking about the bloodstained photograph. In my mind, I saw the man's fingers curved around it.

I'd held onto a photo like that once. It was of my squad, taken the day before Farid died.

I'd carried it through three more months of deployment and the long flight home to Seattle.

Somewhere in my apartment, it was probably still tucked in the box with my other deployment gear—yellowed now, creased from too much handling.

Some things you hold onto because letting go feels like another kind of death.