The alarm was still screaming when the door burst open.
Two night-shift nurses and the on-call resident poured into the room in a rush of white coats and rapid questions.
Jake lay limp against the pillows, eyes closed, face drained of color.
The heart monitor painted frantic red spikes across its screen.
Ruby was already astride the mattress, heels of her hands locked over the center of his chest, counting compressions in a steady, practiced rhythm.
Her scrub top was back in place, trousers fastened, hair hastily smoothed.
No one would have guessed that minutes earlier she had been riding him until he filled her.
“Pulse is thready...start the crash cart,” the resident snapped. Someone shoved an Ambu bag into Ruby’s hands while another nurse ripped open the medication drawer.
