You were finishing your notes on a sprained wrist when the call came over the intercom.

A man sat on the edge of the gurney, one leg bouncing with restless energy. He was big—broad shoulders straining the seams of a faded plaid work shirt, sleeves rolled up past his elbows. His forearms were corded with muscle and dusted with fine, blond hair, now matted with dark, drying blood from a nasty, four-inch gash running along his left one.

He looked up as you entered. His face was all strong, sun-weathered lines, a day’s worth of stubble, and eyes the color of a stormy sky. A battered baseball cap with a tractor company logo sat on the gurney beside him.