Savage Things (Chaos & Ruin Book 2) (21 page)

The EMTs jump from the van, shouting out Millie’s stats. Her tiny body is transported out of the ambulance and rushed inside. I run with the crash team, taking in everything the EMT is shouting: erratic pulse. Pupils fixed and dilated. At least seventeen minutes of continuous convulsions in the field. Famipentol administered, to no effect. Maximum dosage limit reached.
 

The famipentol should have knocked the seizure on the head. Millie should be awake by now. We can’t give her any more. If we do, not only could it cause severe damage to her internal organs, but it could also send her into coronary failure as well. It can’t be risked.
 

“Push sodium valproate. Someone page neuro, tell them what’s going on. We need a consult right away.” An intern, one I don’t recognize, takes off down the hall, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum as he skids and disappears around a corner, on the hunt for a phone.
 

We take Millie into a procedure room. Standard protocol is observed. Millie’s hooked up to a heart monitor. Her levels are recorded. I have a nurse push clobazam, but that doesn’t seem to have any effect, either. Millie remains on her back on the gurney, the heels of her feet hammering against the padding and the sheet, head tipped back, jaw locked, eyes rolled up into the back of her head. She’s in trouble. Big, big trouble. God, she looks so tiny and helpless as the seizure continues to contort her fragile little body. This episode has already lasted too long. Wanda called me forty minutes ago at least, and for a six-year-old to be seizing like this for such a long time? I don’t want to think about what it means. I can’t even think about it, because if I do I’ll have to admit the truth: that I know all hope is lost.
 

Dr. Mike Margate, head of neurology, shows up almost immediately. He assesses Millie, his movements confident, however the look on his face is far from it. “Left pupil’s blown now,” he says. “Could be an early sign of brain herniation. We’re not going to know what’s going on in there until we give her a scan, but we can’t keep her still for that.”

Dr. Hamid, a new member of the intern’s program, looks wrecked by this news. “What about sedation? Can’t we knock her out?” he asks.
 

Margate sends a glance my way. “Dr. Romera? Care to explain to Dr. Hamid why sedation is a bad idea in this case?”

“She’s already had everything we can give her. Her system’s flooded. If we sedate her, it’s going to be too much for her body to take. Her respiratory system will fail.”

“Exactly.” Margate runs a small wooden paddle up the sole of Millie’s right foot, waiting to see if her body responds in anyway. It’s difficult to tell if there’s any natural reaction, since her body is still shaking so violently. He frowns then, bending down, peering closely at the side of Millie’s ankle. “When did this show up?” he asks. “Does she have any other marks on her body?”

It takes me a second to see what he’s pointing to: a tiny red mark on the inside of her leg, just above her ankle. It looks like a rash, though the mark appears to be on its own. Hands are on Millie, then. Four people quickly cut her pajamas from her body, leaving scraps of the Power Puff Girls printed fabric scattered on the floor. Everyone pores over Millie’s tiny frame, scanning for more red marks.
 

I see one low on her ribcage, again all by itself. “There.
Shit
.”
 

An intern raises his hand, a wary look on his face. “Does this mean…does this mean bacterial meningitis?”

Margate shakes his head. “Not bacterial. Check her charts. Is she on Lamictal?”

I already know that she is. “Yes,” I answer. “For sixteen months.”

“Then that’s it, people. Things just got officially worse. She’s probably got aseptic meningitis. Let’s get her under right away. We’re gonna have to roll the dice on this one after all, I’m afraid. We’ll only be able to fight the swelling in her brain if she’s unconscious. She’s going to have to be monitored around the clock, though. You,“ he says, pointing at an intern. “Do not leave this child’s side.”

“But my shift’s up in thirty—” He stops talking when Margate looks up at him, pinning him with a look of fury. “Yes, sir. Of course. I won’t leave her.”

“Good. Get that scan immediately, people. I want to see what’s going on inside that head of hers.”

Margate leaves. Millie’s still shaking on the gurney. We won’t be able to get her sedated quick enough. Her body needs a break from the constant beating its taking. When I look up, about to start ordering people into action, I notice Zeth standing in the doorway of the procedure room. He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest, and his expression is dark to say the least.
 

We’d never normally allow a civilian to observe like that, but he’s not your average civilian. He wasn’t panicking like most people would have been. He didn’t say a word. He kept his mouth shut and he watched, by the looks of things, and he didn’t interfere. Margate didn’t even remark on his presence as he left the room, which means he probably thought Zeth was another doctor or something.
 

I take hold of him by the arm as the nurses wheel Millie out and up the corridor toward the elevators, where they’ll then take her for an MRI. “Don’t you want to go home and wait for me there? It’s the middle of the night,” I say.
 

He follows Millie with his eyes as she’s taken away. “I’ll wait here.” His voice is flat, monotone, and cold. “
You
shouldn’t even be here. You’re gonna need a ride when you’re done.”

“Michael could always run me back later.”

Zeth shakes his head. I can tell by the stoic, emotionless way he’s holding himself that he won’t be swayed on the matter. He doesn’t blink until the elevator doors have closed and Millie’s out of sight. “What’s gonna happen to her?” he asks. “Best guess.”

I don’t want to tell him the truth, but I also don’t want to lie. I hesitate, and then say, “Her outlook isn’t good. She’s so young. With such a violent, prolonged seizure, and the likelihood that she’s developed aseptic meningitis, chances are she’ll either…just stop breathing when we put her under, or her brain will have swollen to the point where there’s nothing we can do for her.” It feels like bad luck to paint such a grim picture of the next twelve hours, but trying to create a different image altogether will only serve to get my own hopes up, and that’s dangerous. Zeth clears his throat.
 

“She’s so small. I didn’t know his sister was so young. He’s been taking care of her all by himself.”

“Yeah. Since she was a baby.”

Turning his back on the elevator, Zeth straightens his shoulders, inhaling deeply. “I’m not hanging around in the waiting room. I’m coming with you.”

“You can’t. This is a hospital, Zeth. People can’t just wander around wherever they like. It’d be a madhouse.”

“Are you going to report me to security?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow.

“No, of course not. But—”

“All right. Well until someone says something, I’m with you. The moment I’m asked to leave, I’ll go. Until then, I’m your fucking shadow.”

There’s nothing I can say that will change his mind now. I’ve learned to pick my battles with this man. If letting him observe what happens with Millie means I’ll be able to claim a victory for myself at some other time, then so be it. “Urgh. Fine. But you’re going to need scrubs or something.”

Zeth, for a fleeting second, looks charmed by the idea of scrubs. I find him a clean set in the residents’ lounge, and he quickly strips down and puts them on. Upstairs on the neuro ward, Millie’s already been put under. Only the soles of her bare feet are visible from inside the MRI machine. I leave Zeth in the control booth with a very frightened looking resident at the computer, observing the scan as it progresses, and I head out to find Margate. I need to know what he’s thinking—if there’s anything further that can be done while we’re waiting for the results of the MRI to be compiled. I’m halfway down the hall when an alarm starts wailing and the door to the MRI room flies open. The resident who was studiously fixated on the stills flashing up on the screen in front of him, doing his best to ignore Zeth a moment ago, is now racing toward me, face white as a freshly starched sheet.
 

“She’s coding. She’s fucking coding,” he gasps.
 

We run.
 

Thankfully the resident’s turned the MRI off. We slide Millie out of the narrow tube, and she is still, and cold, and worryingly blue. “She’s not breathing. Arrhythmic tachycardia. Fuck. Her heart’s giving out. Go get the paddles.”

The resident does as I command. A second later, I have defibrillator paddles in my hands and Millie’s hospital gown is open, exposing her pale, almost translucent skin. The intern Margate told not to leave Millie’s side hugs the wall by the door, watching with terror in his eyes.
 

The defibrillator makes a high-pitched whining noise and then an alarm sounds, signaling that it’s charged. “Clear!”

The resident throws his hands up. I plant the paddles on Millie’s little chest, and I administer the charge. Her body jumps, her muscles tautening and releasing in quick succession. The heart rate monitor beside the gurney continues to shriek, the peaks and troughs of Millie’s heart beat spiking erratically. It didn’t work. Damn it, it didn’t work.
 

“Still arrhythmic. Charge again.” I won’t stop until she stabilizes.

The defib whines. I call clear. I shock her again.

Still nothing.
 

I do it again. I increase the voltage beyond what is safely recommended for the body of a little child. I feel like I’m swimming under water, not breathing, dying for oxygen, and yet I know I can’t come up for air until I save the little girl in front of me.
 

Still, nothing.

“Dr. Romera, we have flat line.”

“Charge to five hundred. Clear.”

“Dr. Romera—”

“I said charge to five hundred!” I can hear the monotone pitch of the flat line alarm on the heart rate monitor, but I refuse to accept it. I refuse to acknowledge it. I know all too well that the defib won’t work if Millie has no pulse at all—how can it regulate her pulse if there isn’t one to begin with?—but I can’t give up now.
 

The resident standing by the defib looks uncertain. He must read the desperation in my eyes, though, because he does as I tell him to and he punches in the new voltage.
 

I shock Millie. Her head bounces on the gurney, her blue lips parting slightly, the tips of her tiny teeth showing, and still the heart rate monitor remains the same.
 

“Flat line, Dr. Romera. No pulse.”

I throw down the paddles and link my hands together, starting compressions on Millie’s chest.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven
,… I count to thirty, and then I start counting all over again.
 

Fuck.

At some point I feel a sickly crunching beneath my hands: I’ve broken Millie’s ribs. I pause, barking at the resident. “Check for a pulse!”

He does. His eyes tell me what I need to know. Again, I start compressions.
 

“Dr. Romera, she’s gone. You should…you should probably stop now.”

Someone’s hand is on my arm. I rip it off, growling under my breath. “Step back. Step back
right now
.”

…
sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty
… All the way to thirty again. I lean back, hands raised up by my head. “Check for a pulse.” The resident heaves a deep breath, shaking his head. He presses his fingers into Millie’s neck, eyes on the heart rate monitor, which is still reporting a flat line, and he sighs.
 

“Still nothing. She’s gone, Dr. Romera. We need to—”

I ignore him. I link my hands together again and I get to work. Everything becomes hazy. I know I ask for the resident to check her pulse one more time, but I don’t hear his response. I focus on pumping Millie’s chest up and down, pushing her blood around her body. Her cells need oxygen. Her brain needs a continuous blood supply. When Margate gets here, he’ll be able to do something. He’ll fix it. He’ll—

“
Sloane
.”

The sound of that voice cuts through the spiraling madness taking over my mind. I look up from Millie’s rapidly cooling body to find Zeth standing in the doorway of the MRI suite. His eyes are pinned on me, solid and grounding. “You need to stop now,” he says quietly. His voice is low, but it contains a commanding timbre that halts me dead in my tracks. “There’s nothing more you can do,” he tells me. “It’s done. It’s over now. It’s time to stop.”

A deep, unwavering pain settles on my chest, making it hard to breathe. “But—she’s only six,” I whisper. “She’s only a
baby
.”

They say all doctors get one. You can go through your entire career as a medical practitioner, treating your patients with the cool, calm reserve you need to be good at your job, and then one day, out of the blue, you’ll lose someone and it will feel like that loss will kill
you
. I’ve never broken down over a dying patient before. My hands have been steady, no matter what. Today, all of that changes. Poor little Millie, so young and so full of life, is my
one
. The one that will break me. My legs feel like they’re about to go out from underneath me.
 

“What am I going to—what am I going to tell Mason?” Tears streak down my face. God, this isn’t how a senior resident is supposed to conduct themselves in front of their subordinates. I can’t seem to get a handle on myself, though.
 

“You tell him you did everything you could,” Zeth says. “Because you did. I saw it all. It was an impossible situation, Sloane.” He enters the room, glaring at the resident and the intern. “Leave,” he growls. “Go get someone or something.”

Both of them scurry out of the room. Zeth scoops me up into his arms and holds me against his body; I collapse, his heat and the security of his strong arms around me keeping me safe. I allow myself another moment of weakness, and I sob. She’s gone. I can’t believe it happened so quickly. We didn’t even get chance to assess her properly. The strain on her body was obviously too much.