Sewn-up Hearts | Grey's Anatomy

10. | We Don't Have the Same Hair Color

Difference 10. He has red hair. She has black hair.

"You paged?"

Owen opened the door to the room and suddenly choke on his words. Cristina had hooked a man with short hair and dark skin to a machine and had intubated him. Although burn marks were all over his body, the man was no other than the Head of Plastics. This hospital had the worst luck.

"I paged." Said Cristina, who threw the stethoscope over her head and sighed, looking into his eyes sadly. "And I need a trauma consult especially since there was a bomb at the mall, you're familiar with bombs so I paged you in particular."

"Ok, well already by the looks of it, if you had to intubate then he has exhaled toxic chemicals, let's get him an echocardiogram, then we need an exploratory bronchoscopy and page plastics, we need to do some skin grafts." He barked.

People rushed around by the sight of Jackson on the table and Owen wondered why she always had a reason not to leave. They rolled him away for his echo and she slumped her shoulder on the doorframe unhappily.

So many people were dying.

This was the first time he hand seen her stand other then tall and proud. She seemed defeated, unhappy, and tired. Then she turned her head towards him and sighed. "I should sign a one-month contract or something."

"If people keep getting hospitalized like this you can sign a one-year contract. By the time it's over no one will be alive." He said, a small smirk forming on his face.

Cristina playfully rolled her eyes and chuckled. "Or I'll die first. There's a high possibility it will happen."

"You make it sound like a good thing." His pager went off and he sighed reluctantly. "See you around."

He silently took note that it was a three word sentence. What a mistake.

"What've we got?" He asked, running into the room and seeing a little boy flatlining. His pale lips were sealed tightly together and the parents were holding each other in shock. They held their other two kids in their arms as the nurses rolled out the crash cart. The fear in the family's eyes was something Owen had seen many times, but he could never get used to it.

"Riley Moore, age 7, found in the front seats of the bomb, severe trauma to the heart and abdomen."

"Get them out of here, the male looks like he has some bad injuries, get him checked in the ER. Make sure the kids are fine too." He licked his finger and flipped through the charts quickly. "Push three of epi and four of atropine. Starting chest compressions."

He locked his fingers together and leaned over the boy, pressing a third of his chest down and a loud beeps rang out every time he pressed down. This boy wasn't going to make it.

After another thirty compressions, the nurse threw the mask on the boy and squeezed twice, then he continued CPR.

The rounds quickly added up and 20 minutes had passed. His shoulders tensed, his arms grew weaker. It was useless. He reluctantly raised his hands from the boys's chest, who's eyes were squeezed tight and face emotionless. Then lifted his wrist to his face and sighed. "Time of death, 3:52."

He ripped his gloves off and threw them into a trash can, then went to go see the family. As he slumped down the halls to the pit, he saw several nurses rushing a man towards the elevator, and a mother holding a child in her arm who fearfully stared at the bed. She seemed around eleven, made twelve, and she was almost taller then her mom too.

Owen sighed and flipped through his charts, then realized that the family were the two he just passed. "Mrs. Moore?"

The woman turned her head around and hustled over to him quickly. "I'm sorry, my husband has gone into emergency surgery, he-he." She burst out crying and her daughter patted her back, a few tears escaping her face as well.