The EMT station smells like bleach, sweat, and convenience store coffee. I'm sitting on the edge of a cot in the break room, watching Hector and Deena argue about whose turn it is to clean the ambulance. Sunday shifts are supposedly quieter than weekdays, which means more downtime between calls, which means more bickering about chores.

  "You did it last Tuesday, not last Sunday," Deena insists, jabbing a finger at the duty roster. "See? Your initials."

  "That's not a T, that's an S with a smudge," Hector counters, leaning in to squint at the paper. He's in his late forties with salt-and-pepper stubble and the kind of unflappable demeanor that comes from two decades of emergency services.

  "You're so full of it," Deena laughs, rolling her eyes. She's younger, maybe mid-thirties, with box braids pulled back in a practical ponytail and biceps that make me question my life choices. "Fine. Rock-paper-scissors?"

  "Rock-paper-scissors it is."

  I watch them throw simultaneously – Deena paper, Hector rock. She grins triumphantly.

  "Two out of three?" Hector tries.

  "Nice try," Deena says, already walking away. "Have fun with the biohazard bags, hero."

  He sighs dramatically, then notices me watching. "Pro tip, kid: never choose scissors. Statistically, most people throw rock first, so paper is your best bet."

  "I'll keep that in mind," I say, my voice still sounding like I gargle gravel for fun. My trachea is mostly healed, but there's a persistent rasp that Dr. Song says might stick around for months.

  "How's the studying going?" he asks, nodding at the EMT training manual open on my lap.

  "Confusing," I admit. "There are so many protocols for things that seem simple."

  "That's the job. Doing the simple things the right way, every time, even at 3 AM with someone screaming in your face." He grabs his coffee mug - it says 'NOT TODAY, SATAN' in chipped letters - and tops it up from the ancient coffee maker. "Any questions so far?"

  I flip through the pages I've been reading. "Why can't we get some movement with them in the back, instead of spending time stabilizing on scene? If that makes sense."

  I am sure that from the outside this sounds like a dipshit question.

  Hector leans against the counter. "Because an unstable patient can become a dead patient during transport. Better to spend an extra few minutes getting them stable than to have them crash in the back of a moving vehicle with limited options."

  That makes sense, sort of. It's just so different from my approach as Bloodhound. When I find someone injured, my instinct is to get them to safety as fast as possible. The methodical step-by-step protocols feel frustratingly slow sometimes.

  "How's the blood thing working out?" Hector asks, keeping his voice low though there's no one else in the break room.

  "Blood thing" is what the paramedics call my blood sense. It's part of my paperwork, after all, and I've got a JLUMA.

  "It's useful," I say simply. "Easier to identify internal bleeding."

  "That's putting it mildly. Dr. Patel in the ER says you've cut diagnostic time in half for three different patients." He sips his coffee. "You ever think about medical school?"

  I shrug noncommittally. Medical school is about eight years and several career changes away from my current life trajectory, which involves... well, I don't know what it involves anymore. Not being Bloodhound, that's for sure.

  "Just saying," Hector continues, "talent like yours shouldn't go to waste. The system needs more people who can actually see what's wrong instead of guessing."

  Before I can respond, the station alarm blares. Deena appears in the doorway like she teleported.

  "MVA on Lehigh Avenue," she announces. "Multiple vehicles, possible entrapment. Let's move."

  I slam my book shut and follow them to the ambulance bay. Within sixty seconds, we're rolling, sirens blaring. I'm in the back with Deena while Hector drives. She runs through equipment checks with practiced efficiency, barely looking as her hands count gauze packets, test oxygen masks, check the defibrillator.

  "What's our approach?" I ask, trying to sound professional rather than excited. It's terrible that I get a little thrill from these calls - people are hurt, maybe dying - but I can't help it. This is the closest I get to get to a nice fresh concussion.

  "We'll know when we see it," Deena says. "But if there's entrapment, fire department handles extraction while we prepare for immediate treatment once they're free. Your job is to stay back until we call you forward, then do exactly what we tell you. Understand?"

  "Yes ma'am."

  "And none of that 'ma'am' business. Makes me feel ancient."

  I smile slightly. "Understood, Methuselah."

  She snorts. "Smart-ass."

  We arrive at the scene in under four minutes. It's bad - a delivery truck T-boned a sedan at the intersection, and what looks like a third vehicle, a small compact, hit them both. Glass and twisted metal everywhere. Fire trucks are already on scene, and firefighters are working on the sedan, which took the worst of it.

  Hector parks at a safe distance, and we grab our kits. Deena immediately finds the incident commander - a fire captain with a white helmet - while I follow behind, taking in the scene.

  Three people in the sedan - driver and front passenger both conscious but injured, someone in the back seat whose heartbeat is weak, irregular. Truck driver standing by the side of the road, elevated heart rate but no serious injuries. Compact car driver still behind the wheel, conscious but trapped by the crumpled dashboard. Person in the back is a kid. Internal bleeding. Their heartbeat is fluttering like a trapped butterfly.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  "Sam, with me," Deena calls, gesturing to where firefighters are working on the sedan. "Bring the jump bag."

  I shoulder the heavy kit and follow her. The car's side is crushed inward, the frame bent at an unnatural angle. "Two adults, one pediatric," I say, loud enough for Deena to overhear. "Internal bleeding on the kid," As I get closer, I can hear a child crying from inside.

  "Two adults, one pediatric," the firefighter tells us. "We've got the door almost clear. Driver's alert, passenger semi-conscious, kid in the back appears unresponsive."

  "The child has a hemorrhage," I say before I can stop myself. "Likely splenic or hepatic."

  Deena gives me a quick, sharp look, then turns to the firefighter. "How long until extraction?"

  "Two minutes for the front, longer for the back."

  "We need the child out first," I say urgently. "They're bleeding internally."

  "We have to go in sequence, kid," the firefighter says. "Front to back."

  I want to argue, to tell them they don't understand, but Deena puts a hand on my shoulder. "We'll be ready," she tells the firefighter, then pulls me aside.

  "I know what you're thinking," she says in a low voice. "But we follow procedure. As soon as they get the child out, we'll be there with everything we need."

  "They might not have that much time," I insist.

  "Then we'll work with whatever time they do have." Her voice is firm but not unkind. "This isn't a solo operation, Sam. We're part of a system. Trust it to work."

  I nod reluctantly, pushing down the urgent need to do something, anything. The chain of command. I can't say I'm enjoying it.

  The firefighters extract the driver first, a middle-aged woman with a head laceration and possible concussion. Hector takes her, establishing a triage area nearby. The passenger follows - her husband, with more serious injuries including a likely broken collarbone and ribs. Another EMT team that's just arrived takes him.

  Finally, they reach the child in the back - a boy, maybe seven years old, unconscious, pale, and bleeding into his abdominal cavity.

  "Pediatric trauma, internal hemorrhage," Deena reports as they transfer him to our gurney. "Sam, vital signs."

  I check quickly - pulse weak and rapid, blood pressure dropping, skin cool and clammy. Classic hypovolemic shock. We move him to the ambulance, where Deena immediately establishes an IV while I cut away his shirt to examine his abdomen.

  It's distended, tense, with bruising along his left side where the car door was pushed in. Through my blood sense, I can see exactly where the bleeding is coming from - a tear in his spleen that's pumping blood into his abdomen.

  "Spleen laceration," I tell Deena. "Left upper quadrant."

  She nods, working quickly to push fluids. "Hector!" she calls toward the front. "Jefferson Trauma, lights and sirens. Pediatric splenic rupture."

  "Copy that," Hector responds, already pulling away from the scene.

  "Shouldn't we apply pressure?" I ask, knowing it's a stupid question even as it leaves my mouth. You can't apply direct pressure to an internal organ.

  "We push fluids, maintain his blood pressure as best we can, and get him to a surgeon," Deena explains. She spikes a bag of saline, calculates quickly, and starts a 250 mL bolus. "Small boluses only - don’t drown him," she says, adjusting the flow clamp. "If he needs more, we reassess. That's our job. Get the surgeon what they need - a living patient."

  I help her secure the child - I check his school ID card in his backpack, name's Tyler - for transport, placing padding around his small body to prevent further injury from the ambulance's movement. His heartbeat is getting weaker by the minute, his blood pooling where it shouldn't be.

  "He needs a splenectomy," I say, the frustration building in my chest. "Every minute counts."

  "I know," Deena says, her voice calm even as her movements are swift and precise. "That's why we're going to Jefferson. Best pediatric trauma team in the city. ETA six minutes."

  Six minutes feels like an eternity when you can literally see someone's life force draining away inside them. Deena maintains a constant stream of conversation with Tyler, even though he's unconscious, telling him where we're going, what's happening, that he's going to be okay.

  "Talk to him," she tells me. "Hearing is the last sense to go."

  "Hey Tyler," I say, feeling awkward. "We've got you, okay? We're getting you to the hospital really fast."

  I don't know what else to say. That I can see exactly what's wrong with him but can't fix it? That as Bloodhound, I might have gotten him there faster? That the system we're working within feels frustratingly inadequate?

  "Tell him about something normal," Deena suggests, checking his pupils. "Kids like normal."

  "I, uh, I just went trick-or-treating last night," I tell Tyler's unconscious form. "Even though I'm way too old. Got a ton of candy. Almond Joys are gross, right? My friend Tasha loves them though..."

  I keep talking, nonsense about Halloween and candy and school, while Deena works and Hector weaves through traffic. The ambulance sways and jolts, the sirens a constant wail above us. Through it all, I keep my blood sense focused on Tyler, watching his heartbeat, the steady seep of blood into his abdomen.

  "Three minutes out," Hector calls back.

  "BP's dropping again," Deena says, adjusting the fluid rate. "Sam, get trauma on the radio. Tell them splenic rupture, pediatric, hypovolemic shock, need blood products ready. We just need enough pressure to keep him perfusing - we don’t try to bring him back to textbook normal. The OR is where this gets fixed."

  I grab the radio and relay the information, using the proper codes I've been studying. The hospital acknowledges, and I can imagine the trauma team already assembling, preparing for our arrival. It's a well-oiled machine, everyone knowing their role, their place in the system.

  "Almost there, Tyler," I tell him. "The doctors are waiting for you."

  We pull up to the emergency bay with a squeal of brakes. The doors are yanked open before we even come to a complete stop, and suddenly the ambulance is swarming with hospital staff - a trauma surgeon, nurses, techs, all moving with purpose.

  "Seven-year-old male, MVC with side impact, entrapped. Suspected intra-abdominal bleed, distended abdomen," Deena reports as we transfer Tyler to the hospital gurney. "BP 70/40 and dropping, pulse 135, GCS 7. Two large-bore IVs, 250 mL saline bolus en route"

  "Definite splenic rupture," I add. "Upper pole, arterial bleeding."

  The trauma surgeon, a compact woman with close-cropped gray hair, gives me a curious look. "Definite?"

  "She has powers," Deena says simply, and the surgeon's eyebrows rise slightly before she nods and returns her attention to Tyler. I flash my JLUMA sheepishly, but nobody is looking in my direction.

  "OR 2 is prepped. Let's move, people!"

  They wheel Tyler away, a swarm of blue scrubs and focused intensity, leaving us standing in the ambulance bay with an empty gurney and bloodstained gloves.

  "He'll make it," Deena says, stripping off her gloves. "They caught it fast enough."

  "Because of you," I say.

  She shakes her head. "Because of you. Without your blood sense, we might have missed the splenic rupture until his pressure bottomed out completely."

  "But I couldn't do anything about it," I say, the frustration finally bubbling over. "I just had to watch him bleed."

  "Welcome to emergency medicine," Deena says, not unkindly. "We stabilize and transport. The actual fixing happens elsewhere. It's not glamorous, but it's necessary."

  I nod, knowing she's right but still feeling that nagging dissatisfaction. We clean up the ambulance, restock our supplies from the hospital stores, and file our report - all part of the routine, the system that keeps everything functioning.

  As we're finishing up, a doctor approaches - not the trauma surgeon, but a tired-looking resident with coffee stains on his white coat.

  "The boy's in surgery now," he tells us. "They found exactly what you described - splenic rupture, upper pole. He's getting four units of blood and they're doing a partial splenectomy. Looks promising."

  "Thanks for the update," Deena says.

  "How did you know it was the spleen?" the resident asks, looking at me curiously. "No ultrasound, no scan..."

  "I can detect injuries," I say, matter of factly, a little quieter than I want it to come out.

  He adjusts his mask. "Some power," he says, snapping off a pair of gloves. "Could use more people like you in the OR."

  "I'll give it some consideration," I reply.