Page 147 of Anchor
They moved her swiftly toward the OR. Reid surged forward, but Apex stepped into his path. It wasn’t violent, only firm, a wall built of steadiness.
“You need to let them work,” Apex said, flat but steady.
Reid’s mind pulled back to the last time she bled. They married quietly, the monitors humming a steady counterpoint to their vows, each beep reminding them both how close they had already come to losing everything.
OR 3 – 2233 HOURS
The rhythm of the room had shifted. The monitors no longer kept a steady beat, but instead spiked and dipped erratically, each alarm sharper than the last.
Rowan’s voice cut through the flurry of nurses, “BP’s dropping… fifty over thirty. Hang vasopressin, stat.”
At Claire’s left, Tuck was already moving with the anesthesiologist, his focus absolute. “Starting rapid infusion. She’s going to need more than volume. Rowan?—”
“Already cutting,” Rowan snapped.
The scalpel flashed down in a clean vertical incision. Blood welled instantly, too fast and too dark.
“Uterus is boggy. She’s atonic,” Rowan said without flinching. “Clamp that bleeder. You’ve got the fundus?”
“Palpating… no tone.” Tuck’s voice rose over the alarms. “Oxytocin wide open. Methylergonovine ready.”
From the hallway, Reid pressed against the reinforced glass, every nerve in his body on fire. He heard every word, saw every detail: Claire’s pale lips around the tube, her blood soaking through the drape, and the rigid tension in the team’s shoulders.
And then a sound pierced through the chaos. A cry. Weak. Raspy.
“Time, 23:08, a girl,” Rowan called. “Clamp. Pass her to the NICU.”
The baby was impossibly small. A cluster of specialists descended at once, warming, stimulating, and intubating, working with swift precision. But Reid’s eyes never left Claire. She was so pale.
Tuck’s voice rose again, harder now. “She’s arresting. No pulse. Rowan, she’s bleeding out.”
“Code Blue!” Rowan barked, sharply, controlled. “We have to fix this fast. Internal massage. Pat, bimanual pressure, now.”
Patrick Hedges moved into position, his hands working deep—one inside, one compressing from above—clamping the uterus between them. “She’ll give us something,” he said steadily. “Don’t let go. Come on, Claire.”
“Hang two more units, wide open,” Rowan ordered.
Nurses rushed to comply. Hands flew, plastic snapped, and blood bags were spiked. Volume poured into Claire’s veins, pressure bags forcing it faster. Yet the monitors screamed red across the board.
Reid stood frozen on the other side of the glass, every muscle coiled, his body demanding action he couldn’t give. He couldn’t fight this. He couldn’t shoot it. He couldn’t throw himself between her and death. All he could do was watch as the life drained from her as they fought to drag her back. Each flat line and faltering beep tore his chest open.
“Pressure’s not holding,” Rowan snapped. “More volume!”
Patrick’s jaw clenched, but his tone remained steady. “Massage continues. Suction. Get me the Bakri balloon prepped. We’re not losing this uterus.”
Rowan’s brow creased. “We can’t lose her.”
The team moved in unison. Another line spiked, another unit forced in. Blood hammered into her veins, each bag drained by pressure cuffs until nothing was left.
Apex stood beside Reid, silent and unmoving, his presence the only anchor holding Reid upright in this storm.
The line on the monitor dipped, then flickered.
Tuck’s voice cut through, calm but unyielding, “Fundus is firming. Bleeding’s slowing. Uterus and blood vessels gaining tone.”
The monitor beeped again. A line of thin, fragile, complexes ran across the screen.
Rowan exhaled, his shoulders sagging slightly as he barked the next orders, “Keep it going. Balloon in and inflated. That’s it. She’s stabilizing.”
