The patient came in at nine-forty-seven.
She was already moving before she knew who it was. That was the thing about bay four on a Thursday night — the clinical brain ran ahead of everything else, read the intake signals before the conscious mind had finished processing them, and her feet were already going.
The patient was twenty-three years old. Lycan. Pack-adjacent outer territory.
Internal bleeding from a conflict injury that had been badly assessed at the community level. Not the northern corridor communities — a different region, one the extension hadn't reached yet.
She assessed. She moved. She operated.
Two hours and forty minutes.
She got her through.
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She came out at twelve-thirty and stripped her gloves and stood in the corridor and thought about nothing for approxima
