Page 94 of The Final Contract

I sigh, pushing my food away. “Long enough that I feel like I’m about to burn out. Some days I don’t even know why I’m still here. The money over there is unreal.”

I keep my voice low, though the cafeteria is mostly empty. “Yeah. They’ve asked me to consider going full-time.”

“And?”

I shrug, but my chest feels tight. “I don’t know. It’s a totally different world over there. Glamorous, excess is everywhere, but…”

“But it’s not this,” she finishes softly, glancing toward the doors that lead back into the ER. “You’re a damn good nurse, Sera. You’d be missed. And I think you would miss this too.”

Before I can answer, the intercom crackles overhead, sharp enough to cut through the hum of fluorescent lights.

“Attention ER staff. Incoming ambulance, ETA five minutes. Three patients from motor-vehicle collision. One critical, two stable. Trauma team to Bay Two. Repeat—three patients incoming, one critical. Trauma team to Bay Two.”

The room stills for half a beat. Stasia and I lock eyes.

Break’s over.

We’re already moving, tossing our trash, scrubbing sanitizer into our hands as we rush for the doors. My stomach knots, half from the food I barely touched, half from the dread that always coils before we see what the night is about to throw at us.

The sliding doors burst open, and chaos comes with them.

Stasia’s already moving toward Trauma Two, where the critical will land. The staff surges forward as the first ambulance screeches up. They sprint beside the stretcher, barking questions, absorbing the medic’s rapid-fire updates.

I catch only a glimpse as they disappear down the corridor—blood, mangled limbs, a face so destroyed it’s barely human. My gut twists. I know the team will fight, will bleed themselves dry for her, but the truth presses hard in my chest. We’re losing one tonight.

The second ambulance arrives right behind. This time, the patient is stable. A man. Middle-aged. His arm in a crooked splint, his face slack with alcohol and unconsciousness.

Of course. Figures.

The drunk who made the selfish choice… walks away with a broken arm. While a woman in a different bay fights for her life.

He’s wheeled past me, met by a couple of staff who take him down a different hall. I swallow hard, bile creeping up my throat.

The third ambulance rolls in, siren fading, lights still strobing red and blue across the glass doors. The stretcher jolts as it’s rushed inside, and I fall in step.

“Severe head trauma,” the medic shouts. “Stable vitals, but disoriented.”

The man is babbling, voice cracked and desperate. “Where is my fiancée? Where is she?”

The medic tries to keep him calm, but it’s useless—he’s thrashing, eyes wide with panic.

I grab a chart from the desk and step into his path. “I’ll take him,” I tell the charge nurse, and she nods, already dispatching another nurse toward Stasia’s trauma.

We push the stretcher into a curtained bay, and I close it behind us.

“His name is Caleb,” the medic mutters before he hurries out. “That’s all we could get.”

I move to his side, reaching for gloves. “I’m Seraphina,” I say gently. “Do you know where you are, Caleb?”

He stares at me, confusion and blood clouding his expression. His hand shoots out, clutching me with terrifying strength.

“Sarah?”

His voice cracks, desperate, and before I can stop him, he’s pulling me against him, sobbing into my shoulder.

“Sarah, thank God, I was so worried?—”

I peel him back, forcing him down, my heart hammering. “No. My name is Seraphina. You were in an accident. You’re at the hospital. If you can remain still?—”