𝗣 𝗬 𝗥 𝗢 𝗠 𝗔 𝗡 𝗜 𝗔 | BOOK THREE

T W E N T Y - T W O

[graham eaton]

Atticus lay on the gurney, weak and broken. I should be the one on that gurney. I should be the one who's hurt. I stare in through the window, watching the nurses and doctors work.

"Let's throw in a subclavian central line," One doctors says.

Another doctor grabs the materials and returns to Atticus's head.

"What do you mean he got Jolene?" My father asks, standing behind me.

I spin around and look at him. Standing here, hearing every noise coming from the room, understanding every order makes it feel unrealistic. The family isn't supposed to know what's going on unless told by the doctors.

"He attacked Jaxon. When Jaxon was down, he got Jolene. He left me a letter, no code, no secrets, nothing. He knew about Atticus and the injury." I say.

He furrows his brows and exhales sharply.

"He was there. He was right there and we never even noticed. We were so pre-occupied with Atticus and the fire that we never even saw him come in and take Jolene." He says.

I nod. Rapid beeping behind me sends my heart to a flatline. I spin around and spot the Doctors all looking at the monitor.

"V-fib, starting compressions."

I watch as they try to restart his heart, pushing blood through his body manually.

"Someone get the paddles. Charge to 200. Clear!" One doctor says.

Atticus's body jumps as the electricity jolts his heart.

"Charge to 250, clear!"

His body jumps again.

"Pressure has bottomed out," Someone says. "We need to get him to the OR now."

"And do what? Do we even have a plan for this? It would be a better use of our time to induce palliative care and just let nature take its course."

"We are not doing that." My aunt Christina says, initiating compressions on Atticus's limp, lifeless body. "This is Beatrice Eaton's son on our table. You give up on him now, when he's just started his fight, you are showing her that we don't care. This boy, this amazing boy, has given everything off of his back to help others, so much so that he is fighting for his life here with us today. We are not putting him on palliative care. We are doing everything in our power to save this boy."

I exhale sharply, watching Atticus with tears in my eyes.

"Atticus?" A soft, feminine voice says behind me.

I spin around, spotting my sister, eyes wide, her mouth open, her hair wild. She dives into our Father's arms, sobbing in his chest.

"What is our plan of care here? We don't have any idea where to start."

"Then call Jordan! He's the best plastic surgeon in the state, if not the nation, and we're fortunate enough to have him just upstairs examining someone's nose for their planned rhinoplasty."

"We're going to create a skin flap to seal the wound and stitch the muscle together. We owe it to Beatrice, Tobias, and their two other children to at least try our best to save this boy. If you have any problems with my plan of care, leave now and don't even think of coming into my OR."

* * * * *

"The surgery went well, but he did crash on the table during the procedure and we had to resuscitate with the defibrillators. He's weak right now and the extent of his injuries is big. We won't know if there are any deficits until he wakes up." Jordan Perry, the plastic surgeon who operated on Atticus says.

My mother sniffles, holding Atticus's hand.

"Do you think he'll wake up?" She says.

Doctor Perry exhales and looks over at her solemnly.

"He was injured very seriously. We won't know the exact time if or when he wakes up. We just have to give him time. You know that." He says.

My mother raises an eyebrow at him.

"But what do you think, Jordan? Do you think that my son will wake up?" She asks.

He closes the binder that contains Atticus's information and slides it under his arm.

"Due to the extent of his injuries, the smoke inhalation, and the repeated crashing, I would say that the odds are stacked against him right now. But, he will stay here, in the ICU, under continuous monitoring and we will let you know of any changes." He says.

He backs out of the room, allowing us all to stare at the boy in the bed.

"I shouldn't have let him come with me," I say. "I shouldn't have at him come with me into the apartment building. We were just going in to grab a baby. It was something I could've done easily on my own."

My mother raises her head, looking at me.

"Or, we can look at this differently--" She says.

"No, Mom, now is not the time to be optimistic!" I shout, cutting her off. "Your youngest son is laying in a hospital bed, oxygen, opioid, and defibrillator dependent. Your son is dying and I seem to be the only person in this room who can see that."

She stands, looking over at my sleeping father and sister, my sister who lay in my father's lap. 

"Or, you can look at it differently, Graham. Say you went in by yourself--you get the baby, wrap him up, he's all cozy and safe in your jacket, and when you get back to that hole in the floor, you jump, slip, and fall three stories into the basement. This time, not only are you injured, your ribs ripped open, your lung exposed, pain reaching every small neuron in your body, but so too is that baby. In fact, that baby is probably dead in this scenario. And, here's the kicker. No one was there to see you fall. Your crew goes in and out of the building, unsuspecting that one of their own has fallen three stories. You lay there, in a puddle of your own blood for hours until you either die from blood loss, suffocate, burn to death, literally any other outcome and you would be the boy in this bed, dependent on oxygen, and opioids, and defibrillators. It was a good thing Atti was in there with you. You could be dead right now, buried under the rubble of that building and no one would know other than Atticus, Jolene, Jaxon, your Father, and a few others. Your brother took a big bullet for you." She says.