Every moment marked
With apparitions of your soul
I’m ever swiftly moving
trying to escape this desire
The yearning to be near you
I do what I have to do
But I have the sense to recognize that
I don’t know how to let you go

A glowing ember
Burning hot, burning slow
Deep within I’m shaken by the violence
of existing for only you
I know I can’t be with you
I do what I have to do
And I have sense to recognize that
I don’t know how to let you go

— Sarah McLauchlan, “Do What You Have to Do”

The ambulances rushed into the bay at the same time. The wailing sirens died together and doors slammed open instantaneously. All around there were rushing people, the craze of an emergency loud and chaotic.

Abby spotted the flashing blue eyes of Kerry Weaver as she limped quickly towards the other ambulance. On her tail was Dr. Greene, his face taut with concern and anxiety. Frantically, she leapt down from the back of the ambulance she had been forced into, ignoring the shooting pain in her ankle and the spinning black night sky that caused bile to burn the back of her throat. Her hands instinctively clutched the brace on her leg and tears burned her eyes, but she did not falter. The paramedics shouted for her to wait, one grabbing her arm, but she wretched away.

With graceful panic, the other ambulance crew lowered the stretcher upon which Luka lay to the ground with a gentle thud. A wrangled sob escaped Abby as she reached its side, and she looked away. This was the first time she had been able to get a good look at Luka, as the EMS teams had not only denied her insistent demands to help them as they cut him from the wreck of the car, but they had carted her away, almost angrily forcing her into the other ambulance despite her struggles. Now the horror of his condition was painfully obvious. He was covered in blood from a multitude of cuts and lacerations. The paramedics had put a neck brace on him. He wasn’t breathing on his own. A sickly pale pallor had consumed his face. He looked dead.

“Luka,” Abby moaned, reaching for his limp, blood-slicked hand. She only brushed his fingers before they rushed him away, Weaver shouting, Greene ordering, their voices pinched in worry. She couldn’t discern the words, everything melding together and beating against her throbbing mind. Her feet moved without thinking, carrying her as best as she could along with them. But the pain was too much. Bleary, wet eyes closed, and she fell.

There were arms around her, warm, strong hands supporting her. She opened her eyes.

“Abby! Abby, are you alright?” Cleo’s eyes were intense as she supported her.

She shook her head. “I can help him! Let me go!” she cried, watching with terrified eyes as the sliding doors shut tightly behind the rushing mass of doctors and paramedics around the stretcher. Her heart was thundering in her ears and she grasped Cleo’s shoulders. “Please, Dr. Finch, let me-”

Cleo’s face seemed pale. “It’s okay, Abby. They’ll take care of him.”

Everything was blurry. Beside her the paramedics rattled off her condition. She wasn’t listening. She couldn’t. Her tired, abused mind began to shut down, and she could only look at the closed, glass doors of the ER, the flashing, red and blue lights reflecting brightly. The world was blurry, loud, and chaotic, but she could discern none of it. Upon her lips she could still taste him, a dying beauty. It was unacceptable. Her mind refused to acknowledge what had happened. The nightmare was pounding, and she was outside her body, unable to control anything.

“Abby, listen to me,” Cleo said, snapping her from her reverie. Her head snapped to the older woman, her eyes weary but focusing. She had lost all concept of how long she had been dazed. Cleo’s smile warmed her a bit, reassuring and compassionate. “You’re in shock. Let’s get you inside.”

Haleh approached with a wheel chair, her wise, dark face full of motherly care. “Come on, honey. It’ll be alright,” the nurse coaxed, smiling genuinely but grimly.

Abby was too tired to argue and too worn to think. She sat gently, wincing, in the cold chair, and closed her eyes. The tears came unbidden and uncontrollably. Haleh’s warm hand fell on her shoulder and squeezed gently and then the chair was moving. The doors slid open and they entered the ER.

Controlled hysteria dominated the scene. Everywhere there were rushing orderlies and nurses, doctors pushing carts of equipment, crying patients and families. Phones were ringing wildly, and Frank was behind the admit desk, trying to juggle a call, a nurse, and a family at once. It seemed more chaotic than usual. In chairs was a large Jewish family, crying and shouting in what sounded like Yiddish. Another man stood at the desk with a girl in his arms suffering from a head wound. A nurse was trying to calm him while reading a chart. The board was overloaded. Abby was floored, despite her preoccupation, by the scene. “Oh, my God,” she whispered.

Haleh turned the chair and began pushing Abby towards exam one. Cleo gave a weak smile. “Yeah. It’s been quite a night.”

Abby only sniffled as they passed the racks of supplies. They had hardly taken a step when Elizabeth Corday came running down the hall. Her face was frantic, her red hair flying about, her blue scrubs swishing. “Where’s Kovac?!” she demanded of Cleo, breathless.

“Trauma one,” responded Cleo, her voice grave. Corday nodded and charged past. It was obvious she had rushed down from the OR. Abby struggled to keep from falling apart, the dam she had erected around her emotions cracking. The world seemed to shake.

Haleh opened the door to exam one. As she did, Malucci came out, chart in hand, his blond hair unruly. “Dr. Finch, what the hell’s going on?”

Cleo only glanced inside. The room was otherwise clean and empty. “Are you finished in here, Malucci?”

“Yeah, yeah. What’s wrong with Abby?” It was classic Malucci, his jaw firm and set in hounding them until he got what he wanted.

Abby didn’t look at him, too tired emotionally and physically to deal with him. Haleh’s gentle hand squeezed her shoulder once more and she found the gesture a small spot of comfort on her sorrowfully aching body. Her eyes slipped close, burning and red. Cleo’s tight voice resonated in her ear. “There’s been an accident, Malucci. I need to take a look at Abby’s foot. Move.”

“Really? Where? What happened?”

“Go help out at admit. They look like they need it.” Her tone was tense. It was obvious she was losing her patience with him.

“Dr. Greene’s doing the rounds.”

“Greene’s in trauma one. Go.”

Finally Malucci backed off, most likely due more to the hard edge in Cleo’s voice and eyes than her words. Abby peaked through lowered lids as he headed down the hall towards the board. Then Haleh pushed her inside.

Distant shouting filled her ears, slamming into her skull with the force of a hammer. Every cry seemed so loud. They were a harsh truth, assailing her senses violently, and no amount of concentration could ward them off. The words meshed together, a throng of medical terms that her tired mind could not sort out. It was their urgency that hurt her, that sliced into her heart like a knife. Greene demanding that Corday hurry. Corday snapping back that there was too much bleeding. Carter’s cry over the din, announcing defib. Weaver’s harsh order for the paddles. Greene again, insisting with a panicked voice that Luka not give up. Cursing, bickering, charging. The jolt shocked her brutally, banging through her cluttered mind viciously, tearing tears from her eyes. Oh God, came the thought. Oh, God, he’s dying, he’s dying, he’s dying-

Cleo shut the door tightly with a thud and a clank of the blinds against the windowpane. Abby snapped out of it as the shouting abruptly stopped. She looked up at Cleo’s stoic face. The other offered her a small smile, but it did not carry to her brown eyes. The last small flame of Abby’s hope was stomped out.

“Come on, honey. Let’s get you up into the bed so Dr. Finch can take care of you,” Haleh gently coaxed. She was too beaten through to take much notice as Haleh tenderly helped her stand. Cleo grabbed her other arm to steady her as she wobbled on her feet, her knees unsteady and threatening to send her to the cold, hard floor. With their help, she sat and then lied on the bed. The cool sheets beneath her, soft and sweet against her tortured limbs, nearly lulled her to sleep. Her crushed spirit collapsed, leaving only tendrils of thought. Her ex-husband. She remembered his words when he proposed to her. It echoed through her head clearly, a cheery sound that sliced through the murky haze of despair. Luka’s smile, when he had met her at her door. She feasted on the fleeting memory a moment, letting its brightness work some warmth back into her.

“I’m going to take the brace off,” Cleo said softly. Abby opened her eyes. Blurry, she focused on Haleh’s round face. The nurse caringly wiped the blood away from the cut on her temple. She hardly felt the sting.

She looked down at Cleo who was working away the brace as carefully as she could. The paramedics had cut away her pants leg and removed her shoe and sock, exposing the injury. Abby looked down at her swollen leg, the entire appendage numb with cold and pain, raising herself up on her elbows. There was a dark bruise forming about her lower shin. She sniffled. “It’s broken,” she murmured, exhausted. Cleo looked up at her without raising her head. “Yes,” she responded, going about her examination. Abby licked her lips and fell back tiredly. Haleh took her hand compassionately. “We’ll take you up to x-ray. I think the break occurred in the lower tibula. Haleh, get her a blanket please. I’m going start a warm saline IV.” The nurse nodded and, after patting Abby’s hand, left to find what they needed. “How’s the pain?”

Abby settled her weary eyes blankly on the ceiling. “I’ll live,” she whispered, almost bitterly. Her soul was churning with guilt.

Cleo’s brow creased with concern. “I’ll give you some morphine,” she declared resignedly. Abby felt her worried eyes pour grief onto her. There was silence a moment while they waited for Haleh to return. She was too tired to feel anymore, her soul sore and scorched by her hot agony. Cleo’s words were compassionate, but they seemed empty. “He’ll be alright, Abby.”

She had no strength to fit back the sob. “It happened so fast…” she moaned in utter misery. The anguish in her heart spilled into her words. “I didn’t know what to do… It’s like my mind just shut down!” Cleo shook her head. “It’s understandable. You were in shock, Abby.”

“No,” Abby moaned, pressing her palms to her forehead. She closed her eyes and sunk into the bed, as if she could hide herself from the world.

Cleo rested her hand upon Abby’s arm. “Did they catch the guy?”

Abby didn’t look at her. Hate and shame, a sticky, murky pit, sucked her in. “No.”

Then Haleh was back and the door slammed open. Her face was frantic. “Dr. Finch, there’s another trauma coming in. They need you fast.”

Cleo’s smooth face seemed old and tired briefly. Abby let out a shaking sigh. The doctor tried to smile at her reassuringly, but she faltered. “I’ll be back as soon as I can, Abby,” she promised, obviously divided. Abby only swallowed and nodded as Cleo rushed from the room, Haleh following her.

The room was quiet against the noise outside. Abby pulled her good leg up as she struggled to sit straight. She tucked it to her chest tightly, wrapping her arms around it. Desperately, she tried to pull herself together. Her soul felt shattered, as if the fraying threads of strength holding it together had finally snapped and split her. Random thoughts filtered through her mind, grotesque and unconnected. Her life seemed broken, out of sequence, disarrayed. She could see it all, now, what she was and what she desired. What had been ruined. She had wanted to be a doctor. She had wanted to be out there, in the chaos, standing as a beacon, with the strength of her practice, ambition, and care exuded to others. But that was gone now. She had wanted a family. She had wanted a husband to hold her after a hard day of work, a man to cherish her, children to love and feed and protect. But that could never be. Her heart was bleeding it all away.

How much more, God? she wondered idly. How much more can you take? How much more do you want? How cruel it all was. To dangle the prize so close to her that she could see it and smell it, but never a taste came to her. How much more would she have to bleed? How many more tears? What do you want from me? She had kept going, kept fighting, kept trying. But no matter how hard, she never got any further. There never was a second chance for her. An elusive ideal was all it was, and she was a fool to be taken in by it. Anger fueled her energy. She got out of the bed, putting all her weight on her unbroken foot. For a moment, she felt weak and dizzy, nearly toppling. But she refused to fall and limped to the door. Grasping the handle, she pulled open the door.

There was something firm yet soft and warm again, and she looked up. “Abby.”

Carter’s eyes were solemn, wide with what seemed like a childish fear. She stepped back, shaking her head, her mouth hanging limply open. There was blood all over him, dying his blue dress shirt to a gruesome purple. Her heart pulsed in pain. “No,” she moaned, seeing the look in his eyes, that sad, regretful glaze. Hot tears stung her.

He sighed, his hands, clean of blood, coming to rest on her shoulders. His eyes were solemn. “Corday’s taking him up to surgery.”

The world stood still, time halting momentarily. At once she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. The shock electrified her senses, stunning her into a paralyzed stupor. Slowly her mind began to chant, over and over again, gaining strength and joy with each utterance, until her lips pulled into a shaking smile. He’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive- “He’s alive,” she whispered, dazed.

Carter nodded gravely, although her joy did not seem to permeate him.

Abby gave a choked sob in relief. He’s alive. Then her strength gave away, and she fell into him, her tattered conscious collapsing into a deep sleep.

Sunlight peaked its way through her eyelids as she lethargically opened them. They seemed leaden, heavy with exhaustion and raw from tears. Lacking the energy to fight their pull, she simply succumbed to the pull of sleep once more, darkness fighting away the light. Something inside her, though, demanded attention, a gentle prodding slowly morphing to an insistent pushing, emerging from her subconscious with thunder, slicing through her dreamy state like a knife.

Abby opened her eyes enough to see her surroundings and immediately squeezed them shut again. The light was too bright, her heart suddenly painfully pounding, and she winced, grunting. She scrubbed the itchy sleep from them, the shooting agony finally settling to a dull throb behind her forehead. After a moment, she willed herself to open her eyes again and face the painful brightness around her. It took her a moment to recognize where she was. The white walls of the examination room were amplified by the daylight streaming through the windows above her, glaring brightly off the tiled floor. Beside the bed in which she had been sleeping was an IV, dripping clear liquid slowly into a long tube she found to be mysteriously connected to her wrist. Her clothes were gone, replaced by a flimsy spotted hospital gown. Her leg felt heavy and cold, it limply resting above the white sheet with which she had been covered, a cast tightly protecting it.

A small twinge of pain pricked her senses, and the memories rushed back into her. The tuition. Her ex. Luka. His smile, his invitation. Driving in his car. The accident. The blood and cold and fear and tears and pain. Luka.

“Oh, God,” she whispered, feeling her eyes sting again, panic chilling her, and she closed herself against her anguish. A thousand questions stampeded through her muddled mind, demanding answers she did know have. Was he okay? How long had she been out? How could this have happened? Despair threatened to consume her once more, a sob pressing its way from her chest, her body quivering. No. She sucked in a deep breath, trying to yank back her slipping composure. No more. Don’t be so weak!

The door opened and closed, and she looked up, dropping her hands from her face. Kerry Weaver stood there, leaning heavily on her crutch. She looked torn and tired, her eyes black with weariness, her shoulders slumping and her form hunched. “Oh, you’re awake,” she said, clearly forcing a smile to her lips.

Abby sighed, looking away as Weaver limped closer. For a moment, she could not make her voice come, too shattered and exhausted to speak. Finally, averting the other’s eyes, she asked quietly, “How long was I out?” Her voice sounded rough and alien to her.

“About nine hours. It’s a little after six.”

A slow sense of disgust rolled over her, her stomach clenching. She was too worn to say anything else, only closing her eyes, licking dry, chapped lips, and turning away, wishing to sink into the bed and hide forever under its sheets. There was a tense moment of silence, thick and deafening. Then Weaver said gently, “The break was bad, but it will heal without complication. Other than a few other cuts and bruises, you’ll be fine. You were a little feverish last night, most likely due to the shock. We have you on antibiotics as well as a little morphine for the pain.”

Weaver’s hand tightened around her own, the other’s skin smooth and warm. The uncomfortable emptiness came again. Abby could almost feel the other’s apprehension as though it was tangible force, chilling her heart. “Luka was in surgery for most of the time you’ve been unconscious. He’s in recovery now.” Abby turned her face to Weaver again, searching the other’s expression for strength and assurance. They were not forthcoming. She felt the tears threatening again, burning her eyes and her soul, her resolve blowing away with a heavy sigh. “Will he…” She trailed off, her voice and strength failing her, unable to finish.

Weaver smiled weakly. “Dr. Corday has high hopes. He gave us quite a scare down here, but he made it through the surgery well.”

Cool relief assuaged her anger. For a moment her heart swelled with ecstasy and joy so deeply she thought she might burst. She could not, right then, deal with the implications of his survival. Cluttered thoughts pushed at her control, horrid fears of paralysis or coma or worse… of the no-doubt long recovery he would have before him. She refused to think of it now, banishing her concerns and fears aside. Struggling not to weep, she could only smile weakly, her lips thinly and tightly pressed together yet still quivering.

At seeing her distress, Weaver smiled genuinely. “I’m just going check a few things, Abby, and then I can have one of the nurses take you up to see him, alright?” she promised, clasping her shoulder firmly. Abby nodded and whispered a small “thank you”. “The police are here. They want to ask you some questions.” Then she was gone, back out the door. Abby sighed, numbing herself in defense of the pounding emotions within. The familiar bitterness of guilt assaulted her soul, eating away at the walls she had erected around herself. She licked her lips again, sighing, closing her eyes. Vaguely, she could somehow feel him still, as if the ghost of his mouth was still kissing her own. Desperately she tried to fight the rush of unwanted memories, his lost, dying eyes, the shudder of his fading, cold breath against her heat, the pain on his face. The sight refused to fade from her mind, and she squeezed her eyes shut against its relentless haunt, the echo of her pleading voice still ringing clearly in her ears.

“Abby?”

“Dr. Carter,” she said, opening her eyes and seeing his form beside her bed. Caught in her reverie she had missed his entrance. He was dressed in a pair of scrubs which she found infinitely less disturbing than his blood-soaked clothes of before. His body and face bore the same signs of wear that had plagued Weaver’s, carrying himself with a slouch, his eyes black and outlined with fatigue. Light brown stubble lined his jaw. “You’re still here?” she asked gently, noticing his exhaustion.

Carter gave a wry smile. “Weaver’s a slave driver,” he said with forced humor, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “We’re short a doctor and a med-student. She needed me to cover.”

Abby shook her head darkly and closed her eyes. Don’t think about it, her mind vehemently ordered. Just don’t. She inhaled deeply and looked to him again. He stood there almost expectantly, a plaintive expression on his thin face, as if he regretted his words. “I’m sorry about before,” she said after a moment, drawing a long breath to steady herself.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s a good thing Dr. Finch sent me to check on you,” Carter said, trying to cheer her with a light voice. “Weaver would have really been on her ass if you had been wandering around the ER, injured and alone.” His face lost a bit of color, and his smile collapsed into a frown. “If there’s anybody who should be apologizing it should be me.”

Her face broke in confusion, furrowing her brow and thus agitating the cut on her temple. She smiled nervously and pressed his palm to the bandage with a wince. “What? Why?”

Carter seemed to scuff his shoes uneasily. “I was a jerk to you,” he finally admitted, meeting her gaze fretfully, as if praying for her forgiveness. “After you saw me taking… well… If it wasn’t for you, I’d be some kind of drugged-up monster now. And I was an asshole to you because of it. So… I’m sorry.” He smiled uncertainly. “You gave me another shot at it, Abby. Thank you.”

Abby didn’t answer immediately, taken aback by his sudden repentance. She had felt like a traitor, like the little snitch that was untrustworthy, after Carter’s harsh accusations directed at her. A small part of herself healed with his warm eyes and gentle words. “I didn’t blame you, Dr. Carter. After what you went through…”

There was the sound of approaching footsteps, and Abby looked to the door. Weaver limped inside, followed by a tall, blond man dressed in a crisp suit and a long, gray trench coat. His badge was clipped to his belt. Behind him was a younger officer in a blue uniform, holding a notepad and a pen. “Abby, this is Detective Halpher.”

The man smiled warmly and Abby felt eased by his open face. He stepped closer and extended his hand. Abby shook it, finding his grip strong and firm. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Lockheart.” His eyes were wide and deep, reminding Abby of Luka’s compassionate gaze. She fought back the pain again, and nodded at him.

“Carter, there’s a flu case in curtain three waiting for you,” Weaver stated simply, intimating that he wasn’t needed there. The young doctor gave glance to his superior and then to Abby, before smiling briefly and leaving, closing the door behind him.

“Can you tell me what happened?” the detective asked gently, looking to Abby.

Abby gave a tired sigh, not wanting to remember it again. Steeling herself, trying to blot out the emotions pushing at her resolve, she said, “Luka — Dr. Kovac — invited me to dinner. We were going to some Italian place in the suburbs.”

“What time was this?” Halpher asked, folding his arms over his chest.

“Around 7:30, I think. By the time we got out of the city, it was 8:00.” She shook her head. “The guy was tailgating us. Luka noticed him before me. He was weaving back and forth behind us, like he was drunk.”

Halpher’s eyes narrowed. “Was Dr, Kovac speeding?”

Abby looked hurt for a moment, and then shook her head slowly. Her face contorted in an effort to stifle sobbing. “The guy moved into the left lane and sped up to go around us. Luka slowed down. I — I was gonna call him in. He changed back into our lane too early, and…” Weaver’s reassuring hand grasped her shoulder to steady her. Silent tears rolled down her cheeks. “The next thing I remember is waking up in the ditch on the other side of the road.”

“CSU found the other car with the driver door open. Did you see the other driver leave?” Abby couldn’t find her voice, only shaking her head. “Did you see the driver at all?”

She licked her lips, the flash of a face once again assaulting her senses. Her voice hardened in revulsion and anger. “Yeah, when he drove past us.” She met Halper’s gaze, feeling hate strengthen her. The other officer was ready to scribble down the description. “He looked dirty. He had pale blue eyes and really gaunt, ashen skin. He had a brown pony tail.”

“Young? Old?” Halpher asked.

Abby clenched her fists. “In his 40s, I think.”

Halpher nodded, taking a slow breath. “I’m going to have you sit with a sketch artist.” Abby nodded. “We ran the plates on the other car. Its owner is a woman with a few DWIs in the past year or so. It was reported stolen a few hours before the accident. There was an empty six-pack inside.”

Abby drew a slow breath, feeling her spirits plummet heavily. Absently she fiddled with the seam of the hem of the sheet covering her. “Will you catch him?” she asked softly, wistfully almost.

Halpher’s voice was reassuring, serving to ease her sense of smashed justice. “We’ll do everything we can, Miss Lockheart. We have an APB out on the owner and all the hospitals are on alert for mysterious patients with wounds that are consistent with a car accident. Your description will help, no doubt.”

“Thank you,” Abby said gently.

Halpher handed her his card. “If you remember anything else, don’t hesitate to call. I’ll send in the sketch artist in a moment.” He began towards the door, opening it, and then motioning towards Weaver. “Dr. Weaver, if I could speak with you…”

The redhead nodded. “I’ll be back in a moment, Abby.” Then she crutched towards the door, pulling it slowly shut behind her. Abby sighed weakly and leaned back into the bed, her strength waning despite the rejuvenation sleeping had given her. The door had not sealed against the frame, and she could catch words of their conversation. Halpher asking when Kovac would be ready for questioning. Weaver replying that he was still touch and go. The wait was indefinite. Abby cringed. Indefinite.

Time crept along slowly, a sadistic twist that elongated every moment to amplify her doubts and pain. Her mind blurred memory and fear, and she closed her eyes against the sting of her tears. She could only concentrate on breathing, the wave of agony eating at her consciousness too violent for her to face, struggling just to ignore the press of her guilt and anger and despair. Thankfully, Weaver finally returned with the sketch artist. Chuny followed behind them, pushing a wheelchair.

The sketch artist was a thin, gangly, balding man whose common name Abby instantly forgot. He sat beside her as Weaver checked her vitals, her leg, and her chart, and Abby mindlessly rattled off the description of the bastard that had hit them. His face was burned into her memory by anger and hate. It seemed to take too long, a growing impatience electrifying her tired limbs with anxiety, and her eyes kept darting to the idle wheelchair.

Weaver finished her examination, and during a pause between her and the sketch artist, explained to Abby information about her cast and injury that she already knew and had herself explained to patients countless times. Then Weaver patted her gently on and shoulder, whispered a few words to Chuny, and left.

“Is this what he looked like, Miss Lockhart?”

Her attention was called back to the sketch artist, and her eyes fell upon the picture he presented to her. The likeness was remarkable. She drew a sharp breath as those sharp, violent eyes trapped hers once more. Voices filled her head, running over each other, fighting to be heard, and a mesh of painful memories crowded into her skull. The recollection was vivid and terrible. No, I think it’s a drunk. Over and over again. Shouting. We were hit by a drunk driver, driver side. Luka, please… I am calm, damn it! Just send the damn ambulance! Stay with me! I won’t let you go… Everybody gets a second chance, right?

“Miss Lockhart?”

The man’s mildly concerned tone snapped her from her reverie. Slowly, she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding, and found herself shaking. She forced her eyes away from the sketch to his. Her voice lost, she could only nod.

The man smiled gently and then stood. “Thank you.” With a swish of his trench coat, he was gone. Abby watched him go, suddenly exhausted and dazed.

“Abby?” Chuny called, pushing the wheelchair close to the bed. “Are you okay?”

She let out a long breath through pursed lips, and shook her head as if that could clear it. She gave Chuny a weak smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

“Are you ready to go?”

She nodded strongly and gingerly moved herself into the chair.

Abby felt apprehension and trepidation as Chuny pushed her into the ER at facing everybody, nervousness making her queasy. Uneasily, she lowered her eyes, swallowing hardly, her heart thundering. She couldn’t understand why, but she wished more than anything to hide from them. From all of them. For what she had done yesterday, for losing her temper. For her inability to help Luka. Just the thought made her want to cry. With shaking fingers, she pushed a lock of hair behind her ear, and braced a hand on her forehead to cover her eyes.

“Abby, you’re up!”

Her need to see him outweighed her fears, and she looked up, wiping her watery eyes. She managed a quaking smile for Cleo Finch as the doctor approached her, rounding the admit desk. The nurses behind it, Lydia and Randi and Conni, all welcomed her with a smile and a few words. Dr. Chen raised her head from a chart and grinned. Their warmth eased her tension.

“How’s the foot?” Cleo asked, standing over the wheelchair.

“Numb,” she responded. She gazed up into Cleo’s warm, wide eyes. The older woman could be arrogant and demanding at times, but Abby felt nothing but gratitude now for her. “Thank you,” she said softly.

Cleo nodded. “Don’t worry about it.”

Abby regarded the other for a moment, and then smiled genuinely.

Then Chuny pushed her towards the elevators. In the distance, she could hear the wail of a siren. But the doors opened and then closed behind her, and she left the ER behind. She took a deep breath to calm her pounding heart. I’m coming, Luka, she thought resolutely. And I won’t leave you again.

The ICU was surprisingly quiet and a stark contrast to the craze that dominated the ER. Abby took little note, however, as they made their way from the elevator. There were quiet words that she did not discern, familiar faces that she recognized but did not acknowledge. Her stomach twisted into hard knots, a burning lump forming at the back of her throat, and the familiar terror crept back. They walked down the hall. At every door they passed, her heart leapt. Would this be the one? Was he in there? Finally, as if to torture her, they reached the last room on the left, stopping before the white door. It was half cracked open, the light of the day streaming through, and Abby looked down in a moment of cowardice, suddenly unwilling to see.

Chuny questioned, at seeing her apprehension, “Are you sure about this?”

She could only nod. Chuny took a deep breath and opened the door. Then they were inside. She felt nothing, said nothing, as she was pushed to his bedside. She didn’t hear Chuny say she’d be outside. The world closed in around her, like a vacuum sucking out all life. The monotonous beeping of the machinery booming, the consistent swish of the respirator loud and painful, filled her head. Her heart was a dead weight in her chest. Slowly, she reached forward with trembling, unsure fingers, and grasped his hand. The grip that had so strongly caught her at her door before was now so limp and weak. His face that glowed when he smiled was pale and slack, cuts and bruises stark against the ashen complexion. Long lashes fell against his skin, his eyes sealed shut. She could almost make herself believe he was sleeping if it wasn’t for the garish tubing protruding from his parted, cracked lips and the tight, suffocating cling of death over his prone form.

The tears rushed down her cheeks again, and now she could do nothing to stop them. Her bleeding heart went out to his, and she squeezed his hand tightly. “Luka?” Her tone trembled, weak and laden with worry and an unsaid hope. A small part of her almost expected his eyes to open, no matter how irrational it seemed, and was crushed when he made no movement, the rise and fall of his chest a false indication of his consciousness. “Luka, it’s Abby.”

She inched closer, lifting his hand between his own. She knew not of how many times she had told worried family members to talk to their comatose loved ones, that their words would bring solace and strength, that they were not falling on deaf ears. A part of her had believed her advice, that maybe anything she might say to him now would help, that he would hear her on some level. But all her words failed her.

Cold tears fell on his hand as she pressed it to her cheek. Her heart swelled, yet she only leaned into his fingers, felt them press into tired flesh as though they were reaching into her soul. Her eyes slid shut, and she could only breathe a silent prayer, a cold solemnity strangely assuaging her terror. In her heart, it was all that remained, a stark, chilled tranquility. There was nothing else left to feel.