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The shower’s spray had been scalding, but Robby couldn’t feel it. Steam surrounded him, reddening his skin. The water roared, but all he could hear was that mother’s screams, loud over the clipped voices of the residents and the frantic mechanical beeping. He could still see the boy’s still body, a stillness that didn’t go away no matter what he did. Tyler. Seven years old. Gone before the ambulance doors had even opened. But they’d tried anyway because what else could they do? What else could he do?
He had a scalpel in his hand. He didn’t remember picking it up. Didn’t remember carrying it out of the OR. A distant part of his brain scolded himself for misappropriating medical equipment. But the voice was small and faint against the echoes of screams.
He turned the scalpel over—size 15—perfect for short, precise incisions. The handle sat in his hand—a cool, heavy weight. The water coursed over his hair, his shoulders; it landed on the blade, the small, delicate edge splitting the water apart into two smaller streams. Light twinkled—reflected by the blade and the scattered water droplets—the color of soap bubbles on a clear Sunday morning.
Pretty, the thought registered distantly. The boy—Tyler—would never blow bubbles again. He would never laugh, shout, run. Only stillness. Forever.
It was hard to breathe. The steam from the shower scalded his throat. The water pressed down on him. Something was tearing his chest apart; the boy's still form and his mother's screams clawed at him. Stop, please stop, he begged.
The blade glinted, the steely reflection pierced through the haze behind his eyes.
Just one small cut, he told himself. Just enough to make this stop.
He pressed the blade to his left forearm, below the elbow crease. The sting was bright and clean, so different from the dull ache in his chest. For one moment, the world was still, all the incoherent aches replaced by that sensation. Then—
Footsteps.
Robby flinched. His fingers slipped.
The blade bit deeper than he’d planned, his flesh offering little resistance to the too-sharp blade. He grunted—shock, rather than pain—as red bloomed instantly along the cut.
"Robby?"
Jack’s voice cut through the sound of water. The door to the dressing room hadn’t been locked. Of course it hadn’t.
"Don’t—" Robby started, but Jack’s footsteps didn’t stop. They picked up pace as he rounded the row of lockers.
Suddenly, the sounds of shoes on tiles came to a stop. Slowly Robby looked up. His eyes found Jack’s frozen in shock. The scalpel slid from numb fingers and clattered loudly to the ground.
There was so much red, was the first thought that registered in Jack’s mind. He took in the scene—Robby, naked under the shower spray, one hand pressed uselessly against his arm as blood ran between his fingers, mixing with water and swirling down the drain.
A heartbeat later, his training kicked in.
"Jesus—Robby, what—" He closed the distance, his shoes splashing through water as he stepped into the shower stall still fully clothed. His hands went immediately to Robby’s arm, assessing. "Let me see. Let me see it."
"I didn’t mean to," Robby said say. His voice was weak, as if coming from far away. "I didn’t mean—it was an accident, I just—"
"Doesn’t matter right now." Jack kept his hands steady as he pulled Robby’s hand away from the wound. The blood flow increased immediately, running faster now without pressure. Bright red at first, then darker. A vein. He’d nicked a vein. Not an artery.
Jack's chest loosened slightly. He muttered a prayer to whatever deity had the misfortune of watching over the ER. His hands found Robby's shoulders. "We need to get you to an exam room—"
"No." The word came out sharp. Robby grabbed Jack’s shirt with his free hand, fingers twisting in the wet fabric. "No, please. Don’t tell anyone. Jack, please—"
"Robby, you’re bleeding—"
"Please." Jack was startled by the desperation in Robby’s voice. Robby was shaking now, the adrenaline catching up with him, and Jack couldn’t tell if it was from shock or fear or shame. Probably all three. "I can’t—if anyone finds out—my license—"
Jack’s jaw clenched. His gaze moved from the wound to Robby’s face, their gaze locked. Robby’s eyes were glassy and frantic, and something wet was crawling up the corner of his eyes. Jack felt his resolve crack.
"Okay," he said finally, quietly. "Okay. But you need to listen to me."
Robby nodded, his fingers knotted in Jack’s shirt. The shower was still running, the spray soaking them both. Water ran down Jack’s face, plastering his dark hair to his forehead.
"Stay here." Jack carefully pried Robby’s fingers from his shirt, then reached past him to shut off the water. The sudden silence was jarring.
"Keep pressure on this. Hard as you can." He grabbed a towel from the hook outside the stall and pressed it into Robby’s hand, guiding it firmly against the wound. "Don’t move."
Then he was running out, his wet shoes squeaking on the tile as he ran for the door. He wrenched it open, closed it behind him, then locked it—he couldn’t let anybody walk in and see Robby.
Robby heard the lock click, then Jack’s footsteps disappeared down the hallway.
He stood where Jack left him, dripping and shivering, pressing the towel against his arm. Without the water washing it away, the blood looked worse. It soaked into the thin white cloth, spreading in a dark stain that seemed too large. His legs felt weak. The tile floor was cold beneath his feet.
He slid down to sit, pressing his back against the shower wall, fingers still holding pressure over the wound. The small towel was getting soaked. Dark red pooled on the tile around him, and he watched it spread with a strange detachment.
This was bad. This was really bad.
But all he could think about was Tyler’s mother, screaming, and the way the boy’s hand had been so small in his.
Footsteps again—slower this time. Something hitting the door, a curse, key jammed into lock, a click, more footsteps, then Jack burst back through the door with his arms full of supplies: gauze, tape, saline bottles, a suture kit, bandages.
Jack nearly dropped a roll of bandages when he saw Robby on the floor. The water was off, but he was still dripping, naked and shivering violently. His skin had gone grayish-pale, that terrible color Jack had seen too many times in trauma bays. The towel pressed against his arm was soaked through; blood pooled around him on the tile, mixing the leftover shower water. And worst of all, Robby just sat there staring at it like he couldn’t quite process what he was seeing.
"Robby." Jack dropped the supplies on the bench and grabbed the stack of clean towels he’d snatched from the linen cart. "I’m here. I’ve got you."
Robby’s eyes moved to him slowly, unfocused.
"Let me see." Jack tugged lightly on Robby’s fingers keeping pressure on the wound, but Robby knuckles were white around the towel. He couldn’t seem to make his fingers let go.
"Robby. I need to see it." Jack’s hand covered his—warm despite the cold water still dripping from his clothes. "It’s okay. I’ve got you."
Slowly, Robby loosened his grip. His hand shook as Jack carefully peeled back the towel. The wound gaped at them—a two-inch laceration along the inner forearm, gaping open. Deep enough to expose the yellow subcutaneous fat beneath. A severed vein oozed steadily at one end, darker blood welling up and spilling over.
"Okay." Jack pressed the towel back down immediately, his other hand reaching for a fresh one to fold as elevation. "Not as bad as it looks. Venous bleeding. We can handle this."
"I’m sorry," Robby said. His teeth were chattering. "Jack, I’m so sorry—"
"Keep pressure. Arm up." Jack positioned the towel under Robby’s forearm, elevating it above his heart. "Can you hold it there?"
Robby complied mechanically, his movements slow and uncoordinated. His shivering was getting worse.
"Can you move your fingers for me?" Jack asked, keeping his tone clinical.
Robby flexed his fingers. All five moved, though weakly.
"Good. That’s good." Jack touched each fingertip in turn. "Feel this?"
"Yeah."
Jack breathed a sigh of relief. No nerve damage, then.
But Robby’s whole body was shivering now.
"We need to get you out of here." Jack stood, positioning himself. "Can you stand?"
"I think so." But Robby’s voice was uncertain, thin and thready.
Jack hooked an arm around Robby’s back, under his shoulders, taking most of his weight. "On three. One, two—"
He hauled Robby up. For a moment Robby’s legs wobbled, and Jack tightened his grip, steadying him. "I’ve got you. Come on."
He guided Robby out of the shower stall, away from the pooling blood and cold tile, over to the bench where his supplies waited. Robby moved like a puppet with cut strings, his bare feet leaving slightly pink prints on the floor.
"Sit." Jack eased him down onto the bench, making sure Robby kept his wounded arm elevated, still pressing the towel against it. "Don’t let up on that pressure."
Then Jack grabbed the stack of clean towels he’d snatched from the linen cart. Robby was shaking so hard now his teeth were chattering audibly. Shock. Blood loss. Cold. All of it.
"Let’s get you dry. You’re freezing."
"I’m fine," Robby said automatically, but his voice shook and the words barely made it past his lips.
"You’re not." Jack draped the towel over Robby’s shoulders first, drying him quickly. "You’re in shock. Just let me help."
Robby didn’t protest, just sat there shivering while Jack worked. Jack grabbed another towel for Robby’s hair, rubbing gently at the dark strands.
"Keep pressure on that arm," Jack reminded him, guiding Robby’s right hand back to the blood-soaked towel. Then he grabbed another dry towel and wrapped it around Robby’s torso, tucking it securely. Another around his shoulders like a cloak. Jack’s hands lingered on Robby’s nape, lending cold skin some warmth. "There. Better?"
Robby nodded, but he was still shaking. Still pale. His eyes had that glassy, distant quality that made Jack’s heart skip a beat.
"Look at me." Jack crouched down so they were eye level. "Robby, look at me."
Slowly, Robby’s gaze focused. Met his.
"You’re okay," Jack said firmly. "You’re going to be okay. I need you to stay with me. Can you do that?"
"There’s so much blood." Robby’s voice was small, childlike. Nothing like the confident physician who’d scrubbed in beside Jack a hundred times.
"I know. But most of it was diluted from the water. It looks worse than it is." Jack squeezed his shoulders gently. "You’re going to be fine. But I need you here. Present. Can you do that for me?"
Robby took a shuddering breath and nodded.
"Good." Jack reached for another towel, wrapping it around Robby’s legs, covering him completely now. Preserving whatever dignity he could.
He checked his watch, then settled on the floor in front of Robby, one hand moving to support the elevated arm while Robby maintained pressure with his other hand. "Now we wait. Ten minutes minimum before I can do anything else. The bleeding needs to slow down."
"Ten minutes," Robby repeated hollowly.
"Talk to me. Stay with me." Jack kept his voice calm. "Tell me about the boy."
"What?" Robby’s voice cracked.
"The patient. Tell me about him."
"His name was Tyler." The words came out broken. "Seven years old. Bicycle accident. Head trauma. He was—" Robby’s breath hitched. "He was already gone when they brought him in. I knew it. But his mom kept begging me to save him, and I tried—I did everything, Jack, I did everything right—"
"I know you did." Jack’s hand was warm and solid under Robby's forearm. He glanced at his watch. Eight minutes. Not enough yet. "You’re a good doctor, Robby."
"His chest wouldn’t move. No matter what I did, it wouldn’t move, and she kept screaming—"
"I know." Jack’s voice was gentler now. "I know it hurts."
They sat there in the quiet dressing room, Jack’s clothes soaked through, Robby wrapped in towels and shivering a bit less now. The silence stretched between them, broken only by Robby's uneven breathing.
Twelve minutes. Finally, Jack carefully lifted the towel.
The bleeding had slowed to a sluggish seep. Not fully stopped, but manageable now.
"Okay." Jack's jaw tightened. "This is going to hurt."
Robby nodded, but Jack saw his jaw clench, his good hand fisting in the towel wrapped around his torso.
Jack grabbed the saline bottles, twisting the cap off the first one. "Ready?"
"Do it."
The first stream hit the wound and Robby jerked, clamping down on a cry. Jack kept going, flushing the laceration thoroughly, watching blood and water run pink into the towel he'd positioned below. The edges of the cut became more visible, the unmistakable precision of a scalpel cut. The vein still oozed slowly. And he could see a hint of the darker red of muscle beneath. But it was something he could work with.
Robby's breath escaped him in a hiss. His fingers were white-knuckled around the towel.
"I know. I'm sorry." Jack grabbed the second bottle, positioning it over the wound. "Just a little bit longer."
He irrigated again. Robby's whole body was tense, coiled like a spring. His breath came in short, sharp bursts.
"Breathe," Jack said quietly. "Slow breaths. In, then out. Through your nose."
Robby tried. Jack watched his chest rise and fall and the effort it was taking him.
"Okay." He set the empty saline bottles aside and picked up fresh gauze. "I need to make sure it's completely clean before I close it. One more flush. This is going to sting more."
"Just do it," Robby said, but Jack could see the dread in his eyes.
"On three. One—"
He didn't wait for three. The saline stream hit the deep tissue at a higher pressure.
Robby's eyes squeezed shut. A sound tore out of his throat—half gasp, half sob.
"Almost—" Jack kept the stream steady, flushing the deepest part of the wound where fat and muscle were visible.
Robby's free hand shot out and grabbed Jack's knee, gripping hard. "Fuck—Jack—"
"I know. Just a few more seconds. Need to make sure it's clean." Jack's voice came out steadier than he felt. He angled the bottle down, one final thorough flush, watching the saline run clear.
Finally, he stopped. Robby's breathing had gone ragged, his hand on Jack's knee trembling.
"Done. I'm done." Jack set down the bottle and blotted at the wound with dry gauze. "The worst part's over."
Robby's laugh was brittle, edged with hysteria. "The worst part?"
"The suturing won’t be as bad. Different kind of pain." Jack covered Robby’s hand on his knee with his own. "You did good."
"I didn’t do anything except sit here and—" Robby’s voice cracked. He turned his face away, jaw working.
Jack was quiet for a moment, still holding Robby’s hand. "You’re letting me help. That’s something."
Robby didn’t answer, but his breathing was still too fast, too shallow.
"Look at me," Jack said.
Slowly, Robby turned back. His eyes were red-rimmed and wet.
"The sutures are going to pull. They’re going to burn. But it won’t be like the irrigation." Jack’s thumb moved in small circles on the back of Robby’s hand. "And I’ll go as fast as I can without compromising the closure. Okay?"
"Okay." Robby’s voice was barely audible.
Jack released his hand and reached for the suture kit, selecting a 4-0 Vicryl and threaded the curved needle through the holder by feel. His hands didn’t shake—years of field medicine, muscle memory from too many wounds that didn't have the luxury of an OR.
"Stay still."
He started with the vein, the cephalic branch was still oozing. He took a small bite on either side and tied it off with a figure-eight suture. The bleeding stopped instantly. Robby's breath caught but he stayed still, eyes fixed on the ceiling tiles like he was somewhere else entirely.
Jack watched him for a second, then turned his attention to the deeper layer, switching to buried interrupted sutures to close the subcutaneous fat and fascia. Each throw was careful—insert, twist, tie, cut—a steady rhythm.
Finally the skin itself. He switched to nylon, black thread catching the light as he re-threaded the needle. Robby's hand found Jack's knee again, not gripping this time, just resting there. A tether to warmth. Safety.
The skin closure would only take a handful of stitches. Bite, twist, tie, cut. Again. Each knot sat flush against the skin, the edges coming together in a thin, even line. Robby's gaze slid from the ceiling to Jack's hands. Jack didn't look up.
There was silence for a while, broken only by the soft click of metal and the rasp of thread.
"Last one," Jack said finally. He tied the last knot, trimmed the ends, and set the needle aside, exhaling for the first time in what felt like hours.
"You’re good at this," Robby said softly.
"I’ve had practice I wish I hadn’t." Jack's hands were starting to tremble now, the adrenaline wearing off. He looked up. "You’re going to talk to someone. A real someone. Not me."
"Jack—"
"Not negotiable, Robby." Jack’s voice was harder now, the fear bleeding through. "You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to—" He cut himself off, wiping a hand through his hair almost angrily.
He got up and started pacing, his mouth opened and closed as if searching for words that would not come. Robby watched him and silence. Finally, Jack whipped around. "You matter. Do you understand me? You matter to me."
Robby’s eyes filled with tears. "I'm sorry. It won’t stop. I can still hear her screams. I can still see his face, and—and all of them—everyone I couldn’t save—"
"I know." Jack stopped, knelt, and reached for the Robby's arm. He started wrapping the wound—fingers steady—betraying none of the inner turmoil. Gauze first then a pressure bandage. "But this isn’t the answer. This won’t make it stop."
"It did. For a second—" Robby’s voice broke. "I know it’s wrong. I know that. But I didn’t know what else to do."
Jack secured the pressure bandage with tape and finally sat back on his heels. His scrubs were plastered to his body, dark with water and Robby's blood. He was shaking now too.
"Tomorrow," he said quietly, "you’re going to call the staff psychologist. You’re going to tell them about the PTSD. About Tyler. About Adamson. About all of it."
"I can’t—if they find out—"
"You can. You will." Jack met his eyes. "Because if you don’t, I will. And neither of us wants that."
Robby looked down at his bandaged arm, at the blood still drying on the tiles around them, at Jack kneeling in the mess with him. "You’re still here."
"Where else would I be?"
"You should be disgusted. Angry. I—"
"I’m furious," Jack said quietly. "And terrified. And I’ll be damned if I let you face this alone." He reached out carefully, taking Robby’s uninjured hand. His palm was warm against Robby’s cold fingers. "But you have to let me help. Really help. Not just patch you up and pretend this didn’t happen."
Robby’s fingers curled around Jack’s, holding on like a lifeline. His voice broke. "I don’t know if I can do this."
"You don’t have to know." Jack squeezed his hand. "You just have to try. One day at a time. Starting with getting you out of here."
For a long moment, Robby just sat there—huddled in towels, bandaged, broken—with Jack's hand in his. Then slowly, he nodded.
"Can you stand?" Jack asked gently.
"Yeah. I think so."
Jack helped him up, keeping a steadying hand on his elbow. Robby swayed slightly but stayed upright. His locker waited a few feet away.
"Get dressed. Take your time." Jack turned back to the shower area. "I’ll clean this up."
As Robby dressed slowly, fumbling one-handed with his shirt, Jack worked in silence. Blood on the tiles, diluted pink where water had mixed with it. The soaked towels. The discarded bottles and packaging. He erased every trace methodically. But he couldn't shake the moment he had walked in and seen Robby in a pool of red.
When he turned back, Robby was sitting on the bench in dry clothes, cradling his bandaged arm. He looked exhausted. Small.
Jack changed quickly into his spare scrubs, then sat down heavily beside Robby.
"Ready?" he asked.
Robby looked at him—really looked at him. At the man who’d run into a shower fully clothed, who’d locked the door and stitched him together and stayed when anyone else would have left. Who was still here.
"Yeah," Robby said. "I’m ready."
They stood. Jack kept his hand on Robby’s back as they walked out together, through the empty dressing room, into the harsh fluorescent lights of the hallway. He steered them toward the physician's lounge rather than the exit.
"Where are we going?" Confusion had crept into Robby's voice and a tinge of apprehension.
"Lounge. You're staying there."
"Jack, I need to go home—"
"No." Jack's tone left no room for argument. "I have five hours left on my shift. You're staying here where I can keep an eye on you, then you're coming home with me."
"You can't just—you have patients—"
"Which is exactly why you’re staying in the lounge and not going home alone." Jack pushed open the door to the small room with its couch, coffee maker, and the faint smell of disinfectant. "You've lost blood. You’re in shock. And I’m not letting you out of my sight until I know you’re stable."
"People will ask questions—"
"No one questions a doctor sleeping in the lounge after a bad case." Jack guided him to the couch. "Everyone saw you working on that kid. They’ll assume you’re processing it. Which you are."
Robby sank onto the couch. He looked small, defeated.
"I’ll check on you every hour. Maybe more." Jack grabbed a blanket from the cabinet and draped it over Robby. "Try to sleep if you can. Don’t leave this room. Do you understand?"
"Jack—"
"Do you understand?" Jack’s voice was firmer now, his fear finally bleeding through. "I can’t do my job if I’m wondering whether you’re—" He stopped, jaw working. "Just stay here. Please."
Robby looked up at him, and whatever he saw in Jack’s face made him nod slowly. "Okay."
"Okay." Jack’s hand lingered on Robby’s shoulder for a moment, then he turned toward the door.
"Jack."
Robby’s voice was barely above a whisper but Jack stopped, his hand on the doorknob.
"Thank you." The words came out broken. "For not—for staying. For—" Robby’s breath hitched. "I’m sorry."
Jack turned back. Anger and fear and something fiercer mixed in his chest. "Just be here when I get back."
"I will," Robby promised.
Jack held his gaze for another moment, then nodded once and dimmed the lights. He slipped out, closing the door softly behind him.
Robby sat in the dim room, the hum of the ventilation system the only sound. He pulled the blanket higher and looked down at his bandaged arm. The white gauze was already showing a small spot of red seeping through. He pressed down on it—a twinge—a reminder what he’d done. Of what he’d almost done.
His hand trembled as he smoothed the bandage, feeling the bulk of the dressing, the tight wrap of tape. Jack’s work. Jack’s hands stitching him back together when he’d been coming apart.
Tyler’s face swam up in his memory—small and still, so terribly still. And behind that, Dr. Adamson’s voice, teaching him to suture, to save lives, to be better than this.
I’m sorry, Robby thought, though he didn’t know who he was apologizing to anymore. The boy. Adamson. All the people he couldn't save.
The shame was heavy, threatening to crush him. But underneath it, something else flickered. Something he didn’t quite have words for yet. Jack had stayed. Jack had seen him at his worst—naked and bleeding and broken on a shower floor—and had stayed. Had dried him off with gentle hands. Had stitched him together. Had promised to come back.
Robby lay down, careful of his injured arm; he curled onto his side, pulled the blanket up to his chin. It smelled like hospital laundry detergent and, faintly, like sunlight. Normal things. Safe things.
Five hours, Jack had said. Five hours and then they’d leave together. Go to Jack’s place. Face whatever came next.
Robby closed his eyes. He didn’t think he could sleep—his mind was too loud, too full. But he could stay. He could be here when Jack came back.
He could try.
Outside the door, the hospital churned on. Somewhere, Jack was checking vitals, reading charts, saving people the way he always did. The way Robby used to believe he could.
Tomorrow he’d make the call. Tomorrow he’d start trying to put the pieces back together properly.
Tonight, he just had to survive the next five hours.
Robby pressed his face into the couch cushion and held on.
It wasn’t okay. It wouldn’t be okay for a long time.
But it was a start.