Page 3 of Wistful Whispers
Miranda’s brain swells despite our every effort to control it.
“We need to back off.Now!” I cry out urgently.
“No,” Bryce snarls. “We keep going.”
My pulse pounds. This isn’t right. We’ve got to do something.
The monitors blare an alarm.
“We’re losing her,” Kendrick croaks.
“Goddamnit. Iknow,” Bryce bites out, his hands moving fast.
It’s too late.
My stomach twists. I want to push back—except I’m not the lead surgeon. I’m the resident. I assist. I follow.
Even when I don’t agree.
Bryce finally makes the call. “We need to close. Now.”
The weight of what’s happening slams into me. I manage to keep my hands steady as we work quickly to close the incision, stabilizing Miranda as best we can.
I know the truth before we even step back.
The damage is done and the ICU is quiet in the worst way.
I sit next to her bed. Miranda is still. Machines now do the work her body no longer can. The rhythmic beep of the monitor is the only sound filling the room.
Through the window, I can see Bryce is speaking to her parents. I offered. He insisted. I don’t have to hear the words to know what he’s telling them.
“The surgery didn’t go as planned.”
“We did everything we could.”
“The swelling was too severe.”
“She’s in a state of unresponsive wakefulness.”
Mr. Black is frozen. Mrs. Black crumbles to the ground.
I look at little Miranda, who doesn’t move. Doesn’t react. Doesn’t wake up.
Never will again.
I should walk away. The job is done. I can’t, though. My ass stays planted, my hand clutching hers.
Could we have stopped it? If I’d spoken up sooner, would it have made a difference?
I don’t know. It’s too late now.
All I know is this little girl trusted me to make her better.
The sharp pull of failure settles deep in my chest.
I don’t think it’ll ever leave.
one
