Page 43 of Never Quite Gone

Each intervention bought seconds, then minutes, but I could read the trajectory in dropping numbers and failing responses. My hands never shook as we placed lines, administered medications, fought against injuries that would challenge an adult body, let alone one so small.

“Staying with us, Tommy?” I asked between procedures. “Keep fighting, buddy. You're doing great.”

His eyes opened again, finding mine with that same absolute trust. “It hurts,” he whispered.

“I know.” I squeezed his hand gently. “But you're being so brave. Just hold on a little longer.”

The monitor's wail cut through everything else.

“No pulse,” someone called. “Starting compressions.”

My hands moved to Tommy's chest automatically, finding the precise spot for pediatric CPR. His ribs felt like bird bones beneath my palms as I started compressions. One-two-three-four...

“Push one of epi,” I ordered. “Charge to 120.”

The defibrillator whined as it charged. Tommy's Spider-Man pajamas had been cut away, leaving him looking impossibly small on the trauma table. One-two-three-four...

“Clear!”

His tiny body jerked with the current. The monitor showed no change.

“Again. Charging to 150.”

One-two-three-four... My arms began to ache, but I wouldn't let anyone take over compressions. Not yet. Not while there was still a chance.

“Dr. Monroe.” Sofia's voice carried gentle warning. “Eli.”

“Push another round of epi,” I said instead of acknowledging her tone. “Where's my surgical consult?”

“Eli.” Her hand found my shoulder, squeezed gently. “He's gone.”

I kept counting compressions, kept watching the monitor for any sign of response. One-two-three-four...

“Time of death, 3:22 AM.”

My voice came out steady, professional. My hands didn't shake as I stripped off my gloves, as I documented the time, as I prepared to face Tommy's parents. They didn't shake, but for the first time in my career, I wished they would.

Sofia followed me into the quiet room where Tommy's parents waited. Their eyes found mine immediately, hoping for miracle I couldn't give.

“I'm so sorry,” I said softly. “We did everything we could, but Tommy's injuries were too severe.”

The mother's cry would haunt my dreams – a sound of pure anguish that cut through every professional defense I'd built. The father caught her as she crumpled, his own tears silent but no less devastating.

Sofia found me later in my office, staring at nothing. “You did everything right,” she said quietly. “His injuries were incompatible with?—”

“I know.” My hands curled into fists on my desk. “I know the statistics, the probability curves, the medical reality. I know.”

“Eli.” Just my name, but it carried decades of friendship and concern. “You can't save everyone. You know that.”

“He was eight years old.” My voice cracked slightly. “He was wearing superhero pajamas.”

“I know.” She reached across the desk, covered my clenched fist with her hand. “I know.”

Soon the day shift would arrive, bright and fresh and unaware. New traumas would come in. Life would continue its endless cycle.

But somewhere in this city, parents were living their worst nightmare. A child's bedroom stood empty, Spider-Man sheets still rumpled from his last sleep. And my hands... my steady surgeon's hands that never shook... they felt heavier than they ever had before.

“Dr. Monroe?” The nurse's voice was gentle. “Tommy's parents are here. They'd like to speak with you.”

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