"I know all the rules..."

It’s an ordinary day, and madness as usual. Fights and strokes, heart attacks and broken bones, and everything in between and beyond. Shortly after eight, the first traffic accident is reported.

“Robby?”

Dana pokes her head through the door of North 3, where Robby is explaining to a very brave little girl that she’ll soon be getting a pretty blue cast on her unfortunately broken arm.

“We’ve got trauma comin',” says Dana. “Pedestrian struck by morning traffic. ETA 5 minutes.”

Robby nods, turning to the little girl with a smile on his lips. “All right, Polly. My friend Donnie here is practically the world champion at putting on casts. You’re in good hands.”

Once outside, he asks, “Trauma One?”

“It’s free; they’re setting it up right now.”

“Do we have blood—”

“MTP is activated, Robby,” Dana grins. “At this time of day, you’ve still got our full attention.”

Robby gives an ironic thumbs-up. Then he spots Dr. King and waves her over.

“The car accident?” she asks, a bit too eagerly.

“You sound very cheerful, Dr. King.”

“Uh, no, I just mean—”

She’s still blushing, which Robby finds kind of cute. But maybe he’s just getting soft.

“And I just mean that I haven’t had time for coffee yet, so let’s go,” he retorts.

In the trauma room, he casts a glance around. A nurse brings in the ultrasound machine, someone checks the blood units; there’s no rush, just tense concentration—the kind of professionalism Robby demands and values in his ER.

The doors to the trauma room swing open. Robby sees Dana standing there, her eyes wide with horror—he wonders what could possibly shock Dana, and why she seems to be seeking his gaze, but the thought is fleeting. The patient is wheeled in, and the paramedic calls out, “50-year-old man, struck by an SUV. High-velocity trauma, blood pressure 78 over 46, pulse 138, GCS three, oxygen via—”

—Robby doesn’t hear it. His ears are ringing; he suddenly knows what it feels like when your blood runs cold. Medically speaking, that’s an extremely imprecise description, but right now, the temperature in the ER seems to have dropped by 10 degrees, and he’s so cold that his hands are shaking. A nurse gasps sharply. All eyes are on him, he knows it.

“That’s Abbot,” Princess whispers to him. As if he didn’t know that. As if he hadn’t seen it the second they wheeled the stretcher in. “What do we do, Dr. Robby?”

At any other time, Robby would know an answer to that question. It is, really, an impossible question. As a nurse, Princess is experienced enough; she knows exactly what needs to be done. She—like everyone else in the room—could handle the most important tasks in her sleep; that’s how confident Robby is in his team. But he has no answer for her. He looks at Dr. King. Mel stands there stiff as a board, her hands raised in a sort of silent defense; her whole body is tense, ready to flee.

He can’t let that happen. Robby is paralyzed; he feels as though he can’t move a single muscle, but Mel has to move. She has to be his hands—there’s no other way.

“Dr. King,” he croaks.

She turns to him, her eyes wide open.

“That’s Dr. Abbot,” she says.

“That’s our patient,” he retorts sharply. “And you’re his best chance right now. What do we do?”

Dr. King swallows, then a jolt runs through her body. Robby is back in teaching mode, and Mel loves to learn; she loves her work and seizes every opportunity to prove herself. He’s counting on her to draw on that knowledge in this very moment. Later, he’s convinced, she’ll despise herself for it. A familiar feeling. But right now, she has to function, because—Robby can’t.

“Pain stimulus,” says Mel. She hesitates almost imperceptibly, then pinches the back of Jack’s hand. “Extension.”

As she continues her examination, seeking for a precise diagnosis and giving instructions, Robby moves forward very slowly. He circles the examination table in a wide arc, almost as if none of this were any of his business. He asks questions, but really it’s little more than a movement of his lips, mechanical speech. Everything—absolutely everything—is seared into his retina: the blood, Jack’s pale face, the unnatural position of his right hand. He won’t like this, Robby thinks, if he can’t use his crutches. Of course, he only uses them at home. When Robby first saw him like that—in Jack’s apartment, without his prosthesis, disheveled and wearing only his underwear—it had immediately dawned on him what that meant. The gift Jack had given him. Complete openness, no pretense. The face behind Dr. Abbot.

Robby watches the monitors, listens to the announcements, lets Mel do her job; his mind is on a roller coaster. Didn’t Jack pay attention when he stepped into the street? Did he stumble, tired and in pain? And why does that matter now? Robby knows why. He wants to shake him until he wakes up and tell him that he’d better be damn careful if he insists on walking. He’ll be lucky to get out of here with just a broken hand and a concussion.

Robby runs his fingers through his hair, scratches his much-too-thick beard, and wonders if anyone notices that his eyes aren’t watering from the dry air. Of course, everyone knows that he and Jack are close friends, but beyond that…

“Do we have an emergency contact?” asks a nurse amid blood bags and lung sounds. “I mean, who do we notify?”

There’s something underlying in the question that remains unspoken: Jack’s wife is no longer alive, he has no children, and he never talks much about his personal life. Rumors spread from day shift to night shift like fruit flies on rotten fruit, and that’s exactly why he and Robby never say too much.

Robby bites his lower lip, then says, “That would be me.”

The nurse blinks in confusion. “Dr. Robby?”

“Yeah, so what,” he says irritably, “I’m his emergency contact; he’s mine.”

“Wouldn’t you have to—I mean, are you allowed to treat him?” Mel asks, eyes wide.

“You’re treating him, Dr. King. eFAST.”

Of course, she doesn’t need to be reminded—Mel already has the ultrasound transducer in her hand.

“No free fluid on the left.” She pauses, the tip of her tongue sliding between her lips. “Nothing on the right either.”

“Pelvis?” Robby asks. He can already see it on the monitor, even before Mel confirms that everything is clear there as well.

Dr. King moves the transducer higher. Without realizing it, Robby holds his breath. His fingers drum impatiently on his thigh. He can’t even pretend to the team that they have an ordinary patient on the table—why should he be able to pretend that to himself?

“Tension pneumothorax.” Mel points to an area on the ultrasound as if she needs his confirmation, but she quickly continues, “Needle decompression. I need—”

“No.” Robby’s voice cuts through the tension in the room. “You’re doing a finger thoracostomy, Bülau position.”

“Me?” Mel blurts out, then, suddenly, she seems to remember where she is. Who she is.

Above all, why she’s here. A nurse repositioned Jack’s arm, and then the scalpel is already in Mel’s hand. For some reason, Robby can’t bring himself to look. This is what Jack would’ve done. He wouldn’t have hesitated, would he? Robby’s skin is tingling. Again, he runs his fingers through his hair, he starts pacing the room.

“Right,” he says unnecessarily, as if Mel hadn’t already made the incision.

“It’s already decompressed,” she replies with a mixture of surprise and pride.

She has every reason to be proud, yes. But all he can think of is that it’s Jack lying there. Jack with his ridiculous baton joke—it hasn’t even been an hour—and his wink, just for Robby. Jack, who doesn’t work as many night shifts anymore. Who’s been sleeping better lately. Who, in his sleep, rests his hand on Robby’s hip, as if to make sure he’s still there, and Robby never dares to fall asleep. As if, just like Jack, he’s afraid that it was all just a dream.

This isn’t a dream. Robby’s dreams are often full of blood, full of unspeakable things, but right now he isn’t dreaming, and nothing in the world can wake Robby from it. This is worse than a dream—the certainty that it’s now Jack’s blood, that it’s Jack lying there, is so terrible that his fingers feel useless and his thoughts freeze.

This is not Dr. Adamson. Robby knows that; he knows it’s not the same at all. Medically speaking, anyway. As far as his feelings go, it’s pretty similar. Jack is injured—yes, technically speaking, he’s seriously injured—and yet his prognosis is good; he’ll likely make a full recovery. Jack isn’t going to die. That much is very, very certain. But why the hell is Robby’s heart racing as if he didn’t know that, as if he couldn’t assess the situation medically with absolute certainty?

Dr. Langdon suddenly appears in the doorway. “Hey, do you need any help?” he asks; the concern in his eyes mirrors the worries of the entire staff. It’s clear that he wants to be of use—every single one of them would rather be standing in here right now, doing something, instead of being out there wondering what the hell is actually going on.

Only Robby would rather not be in here right now—and then again, he needs to, thoughhe feels so useless that bile rises in his throat and he has to swallow. He doesn’t look at Langdon, leaving it to Mel to answer.

“He’s stable enough.”

“The CT scanner is on standby,” Princess calls out, phone still in her hand.

They’re all working as a team; they know what to do, even without being told. It should be a moment of pride, but an irrational fear creeps over Robby, the kind of fear a doctor isn’t supposed to have. From now on, it’s out of his hands. The patient has received initial treatment and has been stabilized; now the hospital machinery, with its many little cogs, will swallow him up, and there’s nothing Robby can do about it. Except that it’s not any patient—it’s Jack.

Mel steps up beside him, slips off her latex gloves, and looks at him hesitantly. Robby watches as Jack is wheeled out. It’s the moment he should start moving again. Keep going, always keep going, see who needs his help next. Not that he was much help here.

Maybe one day they’ll laugh about it, lying side by side, gazing up at the starry sky, which they can see through Jack’s skylight when there aren’t any clouds. Then, maybe, Robby will tell the story of the one time he had the chance to help Jack and then failed miserably. He knows what Jack would say, he can almost hear his voice: “But you didn’t—you didn’t fail. You were there, and that’s what counts.” Or something like that. Jack isn’t exactly a master of words; he usually knows how to express himself concisely and precisely, and he’s certainly not poetic. But in that moment, he’ll try to comfort Robby.