Elena Rostova sprinted at the left rail of Bed 412, her clogs squealing against the polished green linoleum.
The elevator was behind them, its iron gates yawning open into the shaft. Ahead stretched fifty yards of the Ground-Floor Trauma Concourse, illuminated by the harsh, shivering glare of emergency fluorescent tubes.
“Keep the rhythm steady!” Elena called out, her clinical voice slicing through the blare of sirens. “Watch the IV lines!”
“If that saline bag snags on an alcove corner, her peripheral line tears out!”
Julian held the steering handles at the head of the gurney, leaning his full body weight into every stride. Beside Elena, Devon pushed hard against the footboard, his scrub shirt soaked through with chill perspiration.
The air on the ground floor tasted completely different from the stagnant grease of the basement.
It smelled of damp night fog, diesel exhaust, and raw sea salt blowing in from the river docks.
Elena kept one hand firmly anchored on Clara’s shoulder. With her other hand, she checked the mechanical bellows of the portable Hamilton ventilator. The bellows expanded and compressed with a steady, reassuring hiss: fourteen breaths a minute, tidal capacity four hundred and fifty milliliters, end-tidal carbon dioxide reading thirty-eight millimeters of mercury.
