He was tall, silver-haired, and used to winning every argument in this room. Vitals are normal, he snapped. Heart rate 72, oxygen 98.
This man is stable. We are wasting time over a dog. Doyle shook his head.
He’s not stable, sir. He walked in gray in the face. He kept pressing his left side.
Albbright waved the words away. His jaw was tight and a vein stood out on his forehead. Operators hide pain.
If I can’t touch him, I can’t treat him. Somebody fix this. Iris stepped one pace out of the crowd.
Only one. Tavvaris caught her sleeve. Don’t, she whispered.
That dog will take your hand off. Iris gave a small nod, but she did not step back. She was watching Trent, not the dog.
His lips held a faint gray tint. His breathing was quick and shallow, even though the monitor said 16. The skin at his throat looked damp and cool.
