The rest of the day passed in a blur.
Ava didn't even remember walking back to the trauma ward. One moment she was signing off on patient reports, the next she was elbow-deep in a body torn open by rage.
Multiple stab wounds. Arterial bleeding. Chest cavity punctured. The patient had flatlined once. Maybe twice. She lost count.
They fought for every beat of his heart. And when it was done, when they finally got him stable, she stepped back, hands soaked through her gloves, arms trembling from exhaustion.
Her back ached.
Her head throbbed.
She hadn't eaten.
Hadn't even drunk the half-full bottle of water she'd brought in that morning.
By six-thirty, she was back in her office, hunched over her desk like she might fold in half. Her white coat was half-off her shoulders.
Her hair had frizzed out of its neat braid, the remnants of her surgical cap doing little to hide it.
