The medic crossed out Tessa’s first heading.
“That’s a treatment plan,” she said. “You have transport directions and signs that mean somebody should call us. Don’t give it a name that promises more.”
Tessa took the sheet back without defending it. Around the table sat a driver with an hour before his next duty, an engineer whose hands still smelled of the gate fitting, two shelter organizers, and the hospital worker who would have to make the instructions useful when the table no longer existed. Nobody had enough time for a long document. Nobody could afford a short one that hid a dangerous assumption.
They changed the heading.
Tessa asked the medic to read the first medical step as if a frightened volunteer had found it on a wall. The medic did, then stopped at a phrase about deciding who could wait.
“Not like that. An untrained person can’t sort every injury because you wrote three lines.”
“What can they do?”
“Get trained help if it’s available. Describe what they see. Keep the person away from an immediate physical danger if that can be done without making another casualty. Don’t make somebody walk to prove they’re fit.”
