Tessa had six medics where she needed ten.
The hospital message reached her while the first ambulance was edging toward the distortion’s visible opening. The building’s rear ward needed staff to prepare for a possible evacuation. Portable supports had to be checked. Patients who could not walk needed a current order of movement. The nurse giving the message kept saying possible, as though the word might make the missing hands easier to provide.
At the breach, a pedestrian lay beside an overturned handcart with blood running into his hair. A driver was slumped over a wheel. The second ambulance had not cleared the lane. Every medic Tessa sent back to the hospital would leave someone here waiting.
She counted tasks instead of faces.
Two experienced staff at the street treatment point. One with the leading ambulance. One returning to the hospital to assess the rear ward with the staff already there. Two volunteers given bounded jobs: water, clean cloth, and locating people with first-aid experience through Kellan’s neighborhood contacts.
The senior medic stared at her.
“One to the ward?”
“One additional assessor. They have their own staff.”
