Across the central desk, Robby winced, his pen stilling on a chart. Jack’s hand, resting on the counter, tightened slowly into a fist. He gave a single, sharp nod.

Jack stopped chewing the inside of his cheek. He glanced at Robby, who let out a long, weary sigh and nodded back.

They moved. The ER snapped into a higher gear around them, a symphony of rolling gurneys, shouted status checks, and the slap of gloves being pulled on. The first ambulance bay doors wheezed open, bringing in the sharp, cold scent of a Pittsburgh autumn and the blare of a siren cutting off.

He was giving orders, listening to the paramedic’s rapid report, guiding the gurney toward the trauma bay. He was doing his job. He was.

Another gurney. A small form bundled in a foil blanket, a nurse running alongside. Then, a voice. High, terrified, and unmistakable. It pierced through every other sound in the ER.

Jack froze. His hands, still on the drunk driver’s gurney, went rigid. Santos glanced up, her green eyes wide.

Robby was already moving, shoving past a cart, his eyes never leaving Jack.