Then the monitor in Bay 4 screamed. Miguel had gone into a wide complex tachycardia, the exact rhythm I had tried to show Prescott twenty minutes earlier. Prescott froze at the foot of the bed, paddles in his hands, shouting for amiodarone that the pharmacy had not sent up yet. The senior resident fumbled the airway. Miguel’s wife was in the hallway with their two little girls, both in matching yellow raincoats, watching through the glass. Something in me went very still. I walked past Prescott, flipped my badge around so the black stripe faced out, and took the paddles from his hands. Move, I said. One word. He moved. I ran the code the way I had run forty-seven others in a combat support hospital outside Kandahar, calm voice, clean compressions, the right drug from the crash drawer because I had memorized every tray in this ER my first week. Three minutes later Miguel had a pulse. Four minutes later he opened his eyes and asked for his girls. That was when the charge nurse finally read my badge out loud for the room. Lieutenant Commander Elena Vega, United States Navy, trauma and emergency medicine, on civilian rotation. Prescott’s face went the color of the sheets. The chief of staff had quietly walked in during the last round of compressions and was standing behind him with his arms folded. Miguel’s wife pushed through the door and grabbed my hand with both of hers, shaking, whispering thank you over and over while the older girl wrapped herself around my leg. I knelt down so I was eye level with her and told her Daddy was going to be okay, and I meant it. Prescott tried to say something, an apology maybe, but the chief just held up one finger and told him to wait in his office. Then he turned to me and asked, very quietly, if I would consider staying on past my rotation, because St. Vincent could use a doctor who did not need a title on her coat to run a room. I looked down at Miguel, awake and holding his wife’s hand, and for the first time in six weeks I let myself smile.
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